


All Our Debris Flows to the Ocean

by hakuraimaru



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha Kids + Calliope as Senators, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Fluff, M/M, Murder Mystery, Past Child Abuse, Trolls on Earth, barstuck, just btw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 21:06:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3583953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakuraimaru/pseuds/hakuraimaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave Strider, bartender at The Green Sun, didn't sign up to lug a bleeding troll back from his job at 2:30 in the morning. Karkat Vantas, ex-florist and amateur journalist, sure as hell didn't sign up to get dragged back to some idiotic human's hive. Their liquor-heavy meeting is only the first of a chain of unusual events that end with several New Austin politicians dead, and two wordy dudes on a mission to find the killer.</p>
<p>(Title is from "Black Sun" by Death Cab for Cutie)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There Is Whiskey In The Water

He’s been there since six o’clock.

You know Doc’s gonna be pissed right the fuck off. It’s two thirty A-M, the bar closed an hour point five ago, your bouncer’s smokin’ a joint of weed and probably bath salts or some shit outside, and he’s gettin’ paid for it, all ‘cuz of this bag of dicks right here. Look at that pristine turtle-choking package of wiener schnitzels there. Damn. Coulda at least individually wrapped that shit.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’ve got the metaphorical popcorn out for this feature length bounce heard round the world.

“This,” your boss tuts from behind you – you hate it when he shows up out of fuckin’ nowhere – “will not do at all. You, there. Yes, you. Up. Get up.”

Mr. Scratch, better known to his employees as “Doc,” is a man with reasonable standards and a do-or-die attitude about meeting those standards. Example one: The Green Sun closes at 1:00:00 am, end of story, end of epic poem, end of personal fuckin’ narrative. Anyone in the building not in perfect matrimony with that objective? They outie.

Yeah, well, this boozed-up doofus is light-years away from even meeting closing time. Closing time left a six-digit phone number on this kid’s napkin and blasted the fuck off. The way he’s snoring, you can tell he’s hearin’ shit underwater if his consciousness is even on this planet. He’s in the fuckin’ Marinara Trench or whatever. Heh, they should have called it the Tartar Sauce Trench. Because seafood? Yeahhh –

You’re snapped straight out of fish food land as Doc pushes the kid too hard from the other side of the bar counter. With the grace unequivocally bestowed to the profoundly drunk, the barfly tilts halfway off the stool and is too far gone to restore any kind of balance. His arm drags his glass down with him as he drops, and you hear a thud, a shatter, and a sharp cry all at once.

“– heavens, I _am_ sorry about that topple, but your welcome has run out, I’m afraid,” Doc continues nonchalantly. You quietly walk around the edge of the bar to check out the situation.

You know from the grey skin that you’re dealing with a troll, and you know from your three years working with drunken bozos here at The Green Sun that he ain’t going anywhere. He’s blinking up at Doc like he’s only half-there, and he’s curled in on himself. His skin’s starting to tinge green, and you’d assume that’s just his blood color except he’s also bleeding everywhere, and it’s bright cherry firetruck red. Why is he bleeding everywhere? Oh, right, the glass. He must have landed on the glass. Good, it’s just multiple one-to-two-inch long shards of glass. Wait, so why’s he –

He barfs like he’s leaving a receipt for the last 8.5 hours on the barroom floor. Welp, that explains the green. Do trolls even turn green when they’re sick? You learn something enthrallingly new everyday, you guess –

“No more. I have been a more” – Doc kicks him lightly – “than generous” – kicks him again – “host.”

The kid doesn’t respond, other than maybe clutching his legs more protectively.

“I’m going to call Cal if you don’t get a move on,” he warns, cold and clipped as ever.

Nope. Not today. They are _not_ calling in fucking _Cal_ if you have anything to do with it. Remember bath-salts-douche? The gorilla-sized Prince Charming your boss decided was sent by the seraphic archangels to guard the holy gates to your two-star bar? Yep. Cal. Although to be fair, having to even face the reality of sharing the same verdant, supple planet as that remarkable sack of schlongs has to be a pretty effective deterrent for any lawbreakers. Not that you care.

You see Doc move to kick the kid again, and that’s when you make a move.

“Yo Doc,” you interrupt, leaning on the edge of the counter. “Shouldn’t we be callin’ an ambulance on this guy?”

Doc tsks irritably. “Trolls. Good-for-nothings, the lot of them. Do us both a favor and spare this vagrant your pity, David.”

Dammit, your name’s not even David. You don’t bother correcting Doc, because you have this thing called a job that you’d really like to continue a meaningful relationship with. You leave the countertop and kneel down beside the guy, looking him over. The side he landed on looks like the dreds of a box of Shredded Wheats, except really fucking red. There’s not too much blood on the ground, so you’re not worried about him bleeding out or anything, but you can tell that the bigass pieces of glass that are hella deep in his arm are plugging up some, like, Yellowstone geysers. Dormant volcanoes. Fountains of youth.

“We don’t wanna get sued, Doc,” you point out. You’re not about to climb up on some fuckin’ moral high ground with your boss, but you’ve got a troll basically passed the fuck out at 2:33 am in the middle of New Austin, Texas. There’s no way in hell you’re letting this kid roll out of the bar solo.

Doc huffs. “I daresay, as I always have, it was a mistake to admit these sordid alien monstrosities into the American justice system. But so be it. Take care of it, David,” he waves you off, strolling back into the kitchen. A few moments later, you hear the door open and shut, and the jangle of keys as he locks the back door.

No helping it, then. “Hey,” you jostle him lightly – warily, you never know what the hell trolls are thinking – and you feel a twinge of some menopausal womanly emotion you don’t have time for as he whimpers.

“Shit…”

“Hey,” you repeat more firmly. “Bar’s closed. We gotta get you airdropped the fuck out of here. We’re evacuating like the women and children off the Titanic starboard. Lookathat, floor’s already at a 90 degree angle for you.” He doesn’t seem to pay attention to you as he clutches his glass-studded arm, grimacing as he blinks slowly back to a hazy partial awareness. “Yeah, you kinda fucked up your side. No biggie, though, we’re gonna load you in the back of the Stridermobile and drop you at the E-R, get them to stitch you up like a medieval quilting pattern–”

“Oh _shit_ ,” the troll repeats, scrambling to get away from you and inevitably digging glass even further into his hand. He yelps, grabbing at his arm again. “Fucking shit, holy shit, bulgelicking…” He trails off into rapid, hitched breaths, clutching at his chest like he has pneumonia at the bottom of the sea. Or something.

“Yo, you need to get your chill on like the arctic fuckin’ tundra. Are you witnessing the level of chill right here before you? I could teach a fuckin’ masterclass on chill. Ice cubes, Ice Cube, Vanilla Ice, they all bow before their god of chill. And here you are, makin’ like greenhouse gasses and messing with the Kingdom of Chill I spent my childhood innocence on. The polar bears, look at them, they’re crying. Dude, you’re makin’ those dweebs–”

“ _I’m going to fucking die_ ,” the troll chokes out. Damn, this guy probably goes to the ER over mechanical pencil lead poking him too hard if this is how he’s dealing with a couple pieces of glass. Alright, more than a couple, but whatever. “It’s- it’s everywhere, th-they’re going–”

“ _Dude_ ,” you cut him off, “I’m telling you, it’s fine, it ain’t like you’re a water mattress ‘bout to blow its load in one fell–”

“You” – gasp – “don’t” – gasp – “get it,” he wheezes. You stare without any change in expression, waiting for him to continue, but at this point he’s hyperventilating too much to speak, so you consider what you know about trolls to determine what put him in this state of moon-eyed terror.

They’re vertebrates, but cold-blooded, sharing some grubby ancestry with beetles instead of chimps. They’ve got horns – you don’t know how sensitive they are – and it looked like he knocked one of his little nubby ones on the way down, but you wouldn’t go into hysterics over getting kicked in the balls, so you don’t think that’s it, either. They’ve got the blood status thing where the purply bloods are kings and the reds and oranges are peasants or whatever...yeah, this guy has red blood. And he was just talking about how “it’s everywhere,” which it pretty much is. The room’s a work of modern abstractism. Kandinsky would get an art boner looking at this shit. Also, the way the troll’s trying to wipe the blood off his arm and is starting to wrench glass out is pretty much a neon checkmark on your theory.

Then it dawns on you – you’ve never heard of trolls actually having red blood. Rust-colored, sure – they’re always calling each other dirtbloods and shit – but red? Nah. In fact, they always insult humans by calling them redbloods. Like it’s unnatural or something.

“So is it the ER that you’re flipping shits like pancakes over?” you ask in a measuredly flat tone. He nods rapidly. “‘Cuz of your blood?” He nods again. “K, sure. We don’t have to go there. But we gotta get the glass out of your arm and face, so it’s either there or my place. You cool with me taking it out?” He hesitates, still pumping through enough air to put an industrial fan to shame, but manages another nod. “Cool. So there’s no way I’m gonna be able to airlift you to the parking lot. Sorry bro, this helicopter’s spindly ass ain’t helicopterin’ any 150 pound troll nuggets across the concrete jungle. You’re gonna have to sprout your nuggety legs and waddle yourself right on through this fineass asphalt Amazon.”

You watch without expression as the troll starts getting his shit together. After staring at him for about a full minute, you reckon his shit is makeshift bundled enough to get your show on the road. Aww yiss. That show is going right down the entrance ramp to I-85. The 18-wheelers and redneck roadragers bow before you.

You stand slowly to leave, and watch him stagger to his feet. You turn to lead and, from the corner of your eye, you watch him shadow you for a couple of steps before he falls face forward. (Wow, uncool.) You effortlessly catch him on the way down and keep a grip around his waist silently as you complete the three-legged race out the door and down the street. They should have given y’all the egg race because damn are you both inept in your new tripedal form. He almost goes down in the middle of the Linton/Xavier St. crosswalk, but damned if you’re forfeiting this competition before the gods crown you with laurels from the throne of Olympus itself, warmed generously by Zeus’s tush, so blessèd be it. You pull him back on his feet, careful of his arm and face, and keep goin’ until you’re under the “G1” sign on the 6th floor of the Linton St. parking garage.

It occurs to you that you don’t even know the guy’s name. How scandalous. Tomorrow the tabloids will gather over vanilla soy lattés and rejoice in the fortune your one night sit will bring them. You may as well fuse a stained glass window out of the shit in this guys arm to portray the anarchy that will befall New Austin. Or would, anyway, if you had actually published that record and, in your own words, “made it bigger than Drake and Weenie Jon combined.” Which you obviously woulda if you’d published those sweet, sweet hip-hop jams.

“Do you ever shut up?” your luggage-like companion mumbles, and you realize that you’ve been rambling aloud this entire time. Heh.

“The only thing goin’ up in this joint is my market value,” you assure him. “Might be a modest two-mil this sec, two days from now it’ll be soarin’ with the eagles. It’ll go through an airplane and take a dive but it’ll be right back up there, climbin’ with the Fortune 500s. The market brokers’ll look back on this day and say, ‘Damn I shoulda invested in a piece of that Strider ass.’ I ain’t cheap, but I can cut you a buy-one-get-one-free deal if you order in the next 20 minutes. But wait, there’s more, this once-in-a-lifetime offer includes not one, but two free Smuppets.”

“Is this one of your stupid human sellmovies?” the troll growls as you finish loading him into the back seat of your custom flame-painted Smartcar. Bro entrusted you with choosing the next Stridermobile to anoint into the Strider Hall of Irony and he was not disappointed.

“Oh, man, glad you asked. Two-for-one deal in the tentacle porn VHS section.” You shut the door, smirking to yourself slightly at his bemused expression, and slide into the front seat. You rev the engine, as much as a Smartcar engine can be revved, and hightail it out into the sensual Texan landscape.

“So can I get a name?” you ask flatly as you execute a flawless left turn, leaving perfectly spaced skidmarks across the intersection. You like to think of driving as another form of modern art. Again, someone has to carry on Kandinsky’s masterwork and you are one of the few willing to assume such responsibility.

“...” You glance back in the rearview mirror – course, stubby-horns here can’t tell where the hell you’re looking – and observe his nervous expression as he makes no move to respond.

“Oh right, I don’t need to get a name. I’ve got a name. Dave Strider, at your beck and call,” you cover with unmatchable smoothness. You’ll be damned if by the end of the night this guy isn’t swooning every time your aura of cool enters the room.

There’s a short silence filled by the right blinker as you masterfully swerve into your suburban neighborhood. New Austin has a vivid nightlife, but most of the cheap housing is almost on another planet from downtown; the trolls, who take up most of the lower-class, are mostly nocturnal, so they pile up as far away from daytime activity as possible. As a bartender, both the low prices and night owl sleep cycles were appealing, so you live in an apartment full of mostly humans on a troll-filled street. You haven’t spoken to most of your neighbors.

“...Karkat. Vantas.” You glance at the back seat through your rearview mirror again, again noting his expression, an anxious scowl. One of his hands is worrying over the glass embedded in his arm, pinching the skin around the punctures as though to push the wounds further away from him. Aww.

“Cool. Okay, Karkat,” you twist to look over your seatback as you back into the parking lot for your apartment, “we gotta get to the 5th floor. No elevators, all stairs. You gonna make it?”

“Do I have a choice?” he replies shortly, staring at you with a hint of defiance. Troll eyes, you note, glow in the dark, making his yellow scleras even weirder a-f.

“Can’t blame you for lovin’ the Stridermobile, but I ain’t paying to heat it all night and it’s 40 degrees outside. On second thought, heat’s not even on. Just classic Strider ass turnin’ the temperature up everywhere within a 20 foot radius. Better stay in sight of the booty.”

Karkat glares at you but tries to open the car door, rattling the handle violently when it fails to open until you unlock it yourself. He seems steadier on his feet when he gets out, so you let him follow you again, into the apartment and up the stairs, until he’s swaying on his feet outside your chipped, paint-balled door. You find your keys, sift through until you find the flat brass one, and unlock it on the first try (is that what she said?).

“Sit on the couch and I’ll be back in a few,” you direct him, still expressionless as you turn away and make for the kitchen. The first aid kit is lurking in a poorly organized shelf of anticongestants, leftover pills for malaria, cough suppressants, you name it. When you finally dig it out, you pop it open and nab a pair of tweezers, hydrogen peroxide, and a roll of premium ermine-fur gauze, because you don’t skimp on what really matters.

When you reenter the other room, Karkat’s snoring, sprawled out on the couch. You pull up a chair behind him and firmly grip the good side of his head. You may as well start from the top and work down from there, you figure. You get to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, glad to be back and writing again!! Heads up that this project will go on hiatus probably after the second chapter is posted – hopefully I'll be able to start writing again in May, but it might be until June depending on how packed my schedule ends up being :(
> 
> As you can probably tell, this is the first time I've written for Dave – I probably won't be using his viewpoint that often, but if you have any tips on how to improve his second-person narration (is that even a thing? Second-person narrative voice? Heh.) then by all means, pass on your knowledge to yours truly!!
> 
> I have no idea how long this will end up being, but probably between 8 and 15 chapters. Next one should hopefully be posted sometime next week, and will be from Karkat's POV! I'll be adding characters to the tags as they're posted.
> 
> Thanks for reading!! ^u^
> 
> P.S. As you may have noticed, both the title and chapter title are from "Black Sun" by DCFC. I'm not obsessed with the song or anything, but I think I'm going to keep titling chapters after little phrases from the lyrics, because hey, themes, amiright? Hehehe :D


	2. There Is a Desert Veiled in Pavement

_“But I- but I’ve been working here three years, Slick! I’m your most experienced staff member!” you protest, though you know your efforts are futile._

_“Yeah, yeah, ain’t no tenure here, kid. You fucked up,” your boss grunts._

_He’s right. You fucked up. It was inevitable, of course, because you are the fuck-up to end all fuck-ups. At this very hour, a kind-hearted industrious politician is marrying a seductive actress who will lure him in and leave him with nothing, bring him to glory and drop him back to crumple into the earth – and there is absolutely nothing that his sister can do, nor you or the rest of the Midnight Crew, to warn him at this point, not unless you all are ready to be robbed of_ everything _at court. Money buys good lawyers, after all._

_You still make no move to go because you have nowhere to go. You’re a student at the School of Genetics, Radiobiology and Uteroengineering, in training to become a DNArchitect, and you have been working here since Day 1 to juggle paying rent, eating 3 meals a day, and beginning to pay off student loans. No job means no housing, no food, more debt. Sometimes you think you’ll be in debt for the rest of your life. You’ve maxed out your credit cards and your score’s not good enough to take out any more loans, honestly...thanks to your absolute idiocy, you basically just cut your last lifeline. You’re in fucking freefall. And so you don’t move, because you can’t move._

_You hear the click of a hammer being cocked. “Kid, don’t make this harder for yourself. You know where the door is. Get the hell out. And don’t lemme see your face around here again, or else there ain’t gonna be nothin’ left to see.”_

_You move._

_You don’t really register how you’re moving, where you’re moving towards. Suddenly you’re looking up and the big neon sign on the overhang that used to spell out “The Language of Flowers” in glowing curvy contours is gone and you’re staring at green paint slapped on a concrete slab._

_“The Green Sun.” It looks like a rundown piece of goatshit._

_You realize there is absofuckinglutely nothing left for you in New Austin._

_You sit at the bar and order a round of shots. A little more debt can’t hurt you much more._

**=== > Stop fucking around in the past and return to the world of the living, dickweed.**

 

When you gather a hazy recollection of where you are, you feel a ghostlike tingling in your arm and face. You have no grubfucking idea what past-you was thinking when he decided to take a field trip with Random Douchenozzle #1 last night, you have no idea what Random Douchenozzle #1 was thinking when he decided to play schoolbeast driver, and you have no fucking idea where his obnoxious specimen of automobile garbage clocked out, and...and...bulgescratching fuck your arm is burning right now.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are in this fuckstain’s house with no job and surrounded by the absolutely fucking revolting stench of your hideous mutant blood.

You shake yourself more fully awake and immediately regret your decision as your face flashes with pain. You already have the attention of Shadesdouche, so you take your good arm and gingerly run your prongs over where you remember being cut open. Your facepocket feels slick, stitched up in some places, and when you bring your prongs back down you notice most of the wetness is some weird clear gel, definitely some asinine human bullshittery.

“T’fuck’re you doing, you apeshitting nimfuck?” you growl, fixing your eyes on him as he extracts another glass crescent. You hiss, and he looks up. You think, anyway, since you can’t actually see where he’s looking.

“Just the norm, spelunkin’ for pint glass in slabs of troll flesh, tryna make a name for myself in these uncharted Western territories. Manifest destiny has me colonizing your arm, what’re you gonna do about it?”

“Oh my fucking god, you’re one of those shiteating organ reapers,” you accuse, trying to yank your bad arm out of his grip and utterly failing.

“What the fuck. No,” he replies with a hint of disgust. “Karkat, I am a simple caravan driver, looking to better his fortune. I’ve been on the road for six months and my entire family legacy is buried in dysentery, how could you–”

“You get your fuckshitting fortune somewhere else!!” you snarl. “Look, I’m sorry about your human hivemates being culled, but you stay the fuck away from my highfrond or I’ll maul your feculant shitspewing ass like a cholerbear.”

“Dude,” he returns your enraged glare placidly, “chill the fuck out. Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna take the glass the fuck out of your arm, I’m gonna make sure you don’t bleed the fuck out, and then I’m gonna decolonize your ass and head on back to fuckin’ New England to share the fruits of my labor.”

“...fine, whatever,” you gruntclick, not at ease but not in fear for your life at this point. Which is pretty unusual for you, you guess. You watch him continue to tug out the glass with impressive precision. “Who the fuck are you again?”

He gasps without looking up. “Karkat, I’m hurt. We’ve been in the motherfuckin’ trenches, man. We’ve taken the fifty mile voyage across the fuckin’ battlefield, you’ve cried over the lifeless remains of my lower half as you cradled them in your...what was your word again? Highprong?”

“High _frond_ ,” you roll your eyes peevishly.

“In your highfronds, mourning the loss of the unfathomable, fabled Strider ass–”

“–Strider, that’s right! Urr...Dave Strider,” you remember. No thanks to him.

“The one and only,” he confirms. He rotates your arm firmly to inspect the other side and gives a low _hmm_. “Looks like your last biggie’s right here. Gimme the needle?”

“What?” you narrow your eyes, trying to puzzle where you’ve heard the word before.

Strider sighs. “On the table beside you. Short, thin piece of metal with string coming out of it.”

“Oh, the pygmyrapier,” you realize, handing it to him with a couple of short clicks of disdain. “Wait, why the rodhumping fuck do you need the pygmyrapier–”

“–nope, we’re not doing this again,” Strider cuts you off. “Deep breaths. We’re goin’ to fuckin’ meditation camp right now. Hot yoga teacher paging Karkat: it’s a false alarm! No need to flip the fuck out after all!”

“What pile of steaming soporific shit has your thinksponge been soaking in?” you mutter.

“I understood none of that. Whatever, I’m gonna put this into the most basic terms possible, like ph-12 up in this joint. Glass plus arm equals big hole. Big hole minus glass equals fuckton of blood. Big hole minus glass plus a fineass Strider stitchin’ job equals no problem. Capiche?”

You have no idea what the fuck “capiche” is, although you’re pretty sure you’ve seen it on a menu before – probably more of this guy’s bullshittery – but you obviously know what stitches are. “You’re making stitches with a _pygmyrapier_?” you scowl.

“What– how else do you make stitches?” he frowns slightly, perplexed, the first emotion he’s shown.

“With a fastenerbiter, like everyone else!” you exclaim incredulously.

“K, that’s great and all, except what the fuck’s a fastbiter.”

“ _Fastener_ biter. You know, the thing that bends the little pieces of metal to hold paper together?” You are eternally flabberghasted by what these humans don’t know.

“...stapler. You use fuckin’ staplers to– wow.” Strider whistles. “I mean sure, it’s gotta be timely, but you’ll never compete with the Strider bedside manner. Here you are, slappin’ skin together like terms and conditions for the fuckin’ Apple store, and here I am, stitchin’ together bruncheon-level doilies. You tell me, Karkat, you takin’ the paperwork over the custom handmade ornamental placemats?”

You leer at him in reply, suppressing a snarl into a low growl at the back of your throat as you feel the pygmyrapier weaving between layers of your skin. It throbs.

“Some thick skin there,” Strider comments. “It’s ironic. I like it.”

“The douchesquatting fuck’s that supposed to mean?” you snap back. Strider smirks briefly before returning to his perpetual deadpan.

It’s silent for a minute or so.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

Strider’s eyebrows rise above his shades, and he seems to regard you with mild concern. “Why, did you want me to?”

“No. Fuck no. You– but you saw my blood,” you grimace, in regard to both your blood itself and your incredible stupidity for letting it be seen. Anywhere.

“So you are a mutant.” Dave seems to consider you for a moment, before lifting a hand to his glasses. “Don’t blink.” He tips the shades up and stares you squarely in the eye for a split second before dropping them down to their original position.

“Oh,” you manage. “Urr...but isn’t red a natural human blood color or something?”

“Red’s the only human blood color, Kitkat,” Strider replies. “The kid supply companies don’t stock eyes in the best color, shame on the whole manufacturin’ industry. Only place you see red eyes is on fuckin’ Photoshop, and it’s only there so you can take ‘em out.” He doesn’t sound that bothered by it.

“Wait, so you were hatched with them?”

“Straight outta the steaming fuckin’ uterus.”

“And they didn’t cull you?”

Dave’s expression shifts slightly, but you can’t really tell how because of his award-winningly infuriating shades. “I mean I get some weird looks now and then, but no one’s ever made beef over ‘em. Look at that beef, look at how miraculously unmade it still is. The salmonella’s gonna come crawling out of it any second now.”

You don’t have much to say to that, for once. You knew humans had a lot of inexplicable customs – normally of the unjustifiably idiotic variety – but it had never sunk in as a possibility, that they actually found mutants...tolerable. Not even just tolerable, but worthy of attention, even pity. You know from current events that humans make a big deal out of killing each other, but assumed from the social hierarchies you studied in your Comparative Cultures lecture class last year that the high-bloods – urr, or whoever’s at the top – still consider some humans beneath reason. _But not mutants_ , you observe. You realize you are envious and feel immediate disgust with yourself.

“Last one,” Strider reports, extracting the shard cleanly. He drops it into the tray he’s been collecting them in with the wishbone pluckers, then turns away to mess with some brown bottle off to the side. You’re left to stare down the pile of Karkat-colored glass. You hate it. You picture it as a stained glass window. You proceed to wonder why the everbright fuck your twisted, perverse thinkpan pictured your bloodstained tormentors as a fucking stained glass window.

You feel something wet at the top of your arm and flip the fuck out, except your fuck cannot flip due to Strider’s deathgrip around your wrist. He swabs clear slime down your open wounds and you _go for his fucking throat_ because your arm is _being burned alive_ , except Dave sidesteps you faster than you can track and then the burning is gone and there’s nothing but the stinging of embers.

“It’s disinfectant,” he explains shortly.

“...yeah. Sorry.” You flush with shame and sit back down.

“No prob,” Strider shrugs. “So who do I call?”

“What?”

“To pick you up. Don’t tell me you’re walkin’ home at 4 in the morning.” Fuck. It is actually the ungodly hour of 4 in the rainbowshitting morning.

You can’t call Sollux because he’s either asleep for once in his miserable hyperactive life, or obsessing over some coding project he will leave the day oinkbeasts sprout wings out of their assholes. Kanaya is probably occupied with Rose in some capacity you don’t really want to consider; Gamzee is shithive maggots and not a viable fucking option; Terezi you really, really do not want to even think about, 100% due to her “involvement” with aforementioned shithive maggots individual.

“Chop chop, my phone is a restless virgin waiting to be dialed. Make haste, young troll. Had we but world enough and time, this sexual tension would be immortalized in rhyme. Or formaldehyde. Or somethin’.”

“Dave.”

“C’mon, Kitkat, my willing soul transpires at every pore with sick, sick fires that are–”

“Earth to Dave human! Fresh out of designated drivers on isle 2! I’ve got a grand total of zero idiots I can call!” you flash angrily, although you’re not actually angry at _him._

“You’re tellin’ me there’s literally no one in New Austin who will pick you up.”

“You heard me.” You glare at him, wondering if he’s going to make you call a checkerferry.

Dave’s expression shifts again. “Sure, aiite. Make yourself at home in the Casa de Strider. You will be sharing your fine new temporary estate with one singular Strider and the slightly pornographic memorabilia of his predecessor, so blessèd be their fruity, luscious buttockses and phallic noses. Seriously, if you find one don’t fuckin’ touch it, you don’t wanna know where that’s been. _I_ didn’t want to know where Mr. Blue Raspberry Pinocchio had been. Oh yeah, other seed of wisdom: don’t touch Bro’s tapes, or you will _learn_ where Mr. Blue Raspberry Pinocchio has been.”

You stare, paying absolutely no attention to what Strider is pattering on about and dumbfounded nonetheless. “...urr. Thanks.”

“Aww, shit,” Strider shakes his head, “Forgot about– hey Karkat, how’s your horn?”

“My horn?” you frown, raising a prong to tenderly assess the ribbed cartilage. You think you’re in the clear as your claws glide over smooth horn, until they suddenly snag and your nugbone screams.

“Lemme see?” Dave waits for you to drop your hand and parts the hair around your nubby horn. “Hairline fracture. Good news, Kitkat, you’re gonna live. We might have to amputate half of your skull, but you will walk again.”

“Stop calling me that. It’s _Kar_ kat,” you growl.

“Yeah, except Kit-Kats dominate. Accept the honor bestowed upon you, Kitkat. You are the name-bearer, that is you. You shall lead the chocolate wafers to the holy digestive system and they will sing praises–”

“Don’t _touch_ it!” you yelp as you feel grubby human fingers brush against your horn, and you irritably shake off the flush of pale hormones that follows.

“What, are horns, like, troll balls?” Strider cocks an eyebrow over the rim of his shades.

“N-no, they’re nothing like _shameglobes_!” you hiss. “They’re- never mind, you wouldn’t get it.”

“Credit where credit is due, Kitkat, especially since I know where the horn cement is at,” Strider crows in reply.

“It’s at fucking Walmart, Strider,” you roll your eyes.

“How right you are, Karkat. Duly notable is how it’s 4 in the morning. Can your horn hold off ‘til tomorrow or is it gonna give birth to a colony of dungbeetles before then?”

“I’ll manage,” you retort dryly.

“Beautiful. I’m out,” Dave announces, exiting flippantly.

You almost consider leaving before you conk out on the couch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering about my made-up troll terminology above: cheek = facepocket, arm = highfrond (because frond = leg), fastenerbiter = stapler, wishbone pluckers = tweezers, schoolbeast = a large insect with the function of a schoolbus, and checkerferry = taxi (because they made sense to me at the time eheheh)  
> I’m hoping to incorporate certain troll noises as consistent replacements for human noises, so ideas in the comments would be greatly appreciated! So far I’ve designated clicking as a representation for amusement that the speaker wants to understate or conceal, or a form of condescension. So stuff like that :D  
>   
> Unfortunately, I'm not going to be able to work on this for probably close to a month :( I will most likely have something up after the first week of May, which is depressingly far away for me...on the bright side, I've been developing the plot and these first two chapters barely dip their toes into it ÒwÓ so maybe look forward to that!!  
> As usual, thanks for reading!! ^u^


	3. And There Is Death Upon The Vine

Your name? You don’t have one. You are the Impartial Narrator, and you are here because someone has to give the real ~~swi~~ skinny on what happened. Anyone with a thinkpan can tell that these two morons won’t get it right.

Too bad you weren’t there for this part. _Sigh_. You’ll just have to come back later.

**=== > Be the troll nugget.**

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you feel like you’ve just come up for air after being underwater for a grubfucking millennium. Your perpetual rage blazes with its familiar intensity as the world crashes back into focus, as the experience of wakefulness hits you like a cold bucket of FUCK YOU.

The first two things you notice are the overhead light and the TV. You notice these things first because they make you want to lobotomize yourself with a screwdriver. A low rattle of annoyance quivers in the back of your throat as you stare at the newscaster with the utmost loathing. Your nugbone is exploding like Mount fucking Vesuvius, if that’s even the right human name for one of those lavablasters, and the human’s singsong voice makes you want to violently extract her shout sphincter with a garden rake.

You wonder for a moment where you are, exactly, before remembering all of the events of last night. Or this morning, for that matter. Right, you’re in Strider’s house.

You passively examine your arm, which twinges in weak protest as you gently lift it and turn it from side to side. Huh. Strider did an okay job. Everything seems stitched back into place, more or less, and it looks like he cleaned up, too. Thank fucking goodness – one more nanosecond of looking at your feculent, vomit-inducing blood would send you on an acrobatic fucking pirouette off the handle.

You absently bring a prong to your horn, gently and nervously inspecting the surface. There’s a little bump, you feel out, right where the crack had been. Looks like Strider took care of your horn fracture, too. How Strider knew how to apply horn cement? You have no grubfucking idea.

Then, it hits you – _right_. You’re in _Strider’s house_.

You scramble to your feet. “Strider?” you yell. You don’t hear a response immediately.

“STRIDER!” you screech; you’re mostly impatient, but also somewhat nervous. You can smell all the humans in Strider’s apartment complex and they set you on edge. You don’t want to be in this building alone.

“Hold on,” a voice floats from down the hall. You have no fucking intention of “holding on.” You tromp down the hall, pissed and on edge, and step halfway into the meal block.

“You goin’ somewhere?” Strider drawls without looking up from his work. The shitlicking asswad is at the stove, messing with something in a pan. You smell butter and...eggs. Those are scrambled eggs.

“The fuck, Strider?” you grunt.

“No need to thank me, Kitkat, sewing up mauled troll skin for three hours straight is my utmost pleasure, right up there with harvesting organs for the black market. Gotta get that shit on ice like a fuckin’ Disney production. Breakfast?” He holds the frying pan out to you, as though he expects you to take a fork to the eggs right there.

You stare at Strider awkwardly before he raises his eyebrows, seeming to motion to the counter beside you. Oh, there are the plates. You grab one off the top of the stack and hold it out under the pan, as Strider shakes you out a small heap and hands you a wet spoon, slick with raw egg.

“Fucking incredible,” you shake your head, although you still take the spoon. You take one bite of the eggs and your tongue barely touches the cluckbeast’s bounty before your throat clicks rapidly with disdain. “These have the flavor of fucking cardboard, Strider.”

“Kitkat, you’ve got no idea what you’re talkin’ about. These eggs, right here, gracing your olfactory bulbs with their heaven-blessèd flavor infusions – you are witnessing the eggs that landed me two minutes away from Masterchef. Gordon Ramsay bows before these eggs, Karkat. Got on his knees and cried into my fucking apron.”

“This is the most bland, insipid concoction I have ever put in my shitspewing system, Strider.” You open your mouth to offer more of your ever-valued opinion, but pause as “breaking news” music blares from the TV in the other room. “Your unseasoned bullshit –”

“– dude,” Strider holds up a finger, and you immediately puff up, rattling in indignation. Strider’s eyebrows are furrowed with concern as he abruptly clangs the pan back onto the stove, loudly enough to make you flinch (a little pathetically, you note with embarrassment), and rushes into the other room. You follow.

_“...oyees at The Green Sun report no suspicious behavior at the bar that night. Autopsies point to the chemical drexalophine as a likely cause of death. Investigations into the bar’s suppliers and surveillance cameras are currently in progress. CBS News, New Austin.”_

“Holy crotchstaining fuck,” you stare, “we were _there_ last night.”

“I was _working_ there last night,” Dave states flatly. “I shook her hand.”

“Whose hand?”

“Senator fuckin’ Crocker’s.” Strider pauses. “She’s dead. My bro knew her, he was there with her last night...fucking wow.” He sat down on the couch, though for all the shock in his posture his face never lost its stoic mask.

“Jane Crocker?” you repeat.

“The one and only.” Strider is scrolling down some webpage on his voicepager, you notice. “Says she just keeled over after some bullshit late night press conference. Surrounded by guards and shit.”

“Look up the drexa-whatever-the-fuck chemical,” you say, biting back a nervous growl. You’re a little guilty that your first thought was _it could have been me_. Better you than her, anyway.

Strider surveys the faintly glowing screen. “Says it’s a plant toxin. Takes about three to five hours to ferry suckers off to their great reward.”

“H-how the taintchafing fuck did anyone get close enough to poison her?” Your nubby fangs grind together as you consider the possibilities.

“Guards can’t watch everything,” Strider points out. “If they’re pointin’ to the bar, someone probably slipped somethin’ into her drink. Might’ve happened before she even got there, though.” He whistles. “One hell of an assassination.”

“Why the fuck was she even in that shithole?” you wonder aloud.

“Dunno. Saw her drinking with the Texas governor,” Strider replies. “Real question’s why the fuck you were in that shithole, Kitkat.”

You grit your teeth. “None of your shamefucking business, Strider.”

“Dude, Kitkat, Karkat, we’ve been through the voyage of a fuckin’ lifetime, the legendary shit Blockbuster employees slap on the back of video fuckin’ cassettes –”

“– fuck _off_ , Strider,” you growl warningly.

“You’re gonna do this,” Strider sighs.

“Do what?” you snap.

“You’re gonna make me play the ‘you’re in my house and you’ve redyed my carpet with your bodily fluids’ card.”

You leer at him, although you feel your ears burn in shame. “Sorry,” you spit, even though you kind of are. Fuck if you wouldn’t hate all that disgusting red in your apartment. The apartment you will no longer be able to afford.

“Hey, don’t be sorry. Just tell me what the hell you were doing, getting blasted at two in the fuckin’ morning.”

You scowl, fixing your eyes one of the bright red spots on the carpet. “... _lstmyjb_.”

“What.”

“I lost my fucking job!” you glare back up at him hotly. “I lost my worthless, hoofbeastshitting, incredible clusterfuck of a job because I am too fucking incompetent to convey _one_ message from Person A to Person fucking B when I have been paid to do _just that_ for three _fucking_ years of my life.”

“‘K,” Strider studies you coolly, “it’s a job.”

“It’s the only mothergrubfucking job suspending me from taking a corkscrew double somersault into a rolling, expansive sea of debt and fucking homelessness,” you snarl, irate.

Strider’s expression doesn’t change, as he continues eying you levelly through his shades. “You done yet?”

“Am I- you know what? Fuck yes. I _am_ done. I’m done with fucking everything.”

“Hope so, bein’ a nymphomaniac ain’t a sustainable lifestyle,” Strider smirks slightly.

“Eat shit.”

“Cool. So here’s what you’re gonna do,” Strider grows serious again. “You’re gonna to the café right beside The Green Sun. You’re gonna apply for the open full-time spot they’re offerin’ and win their bodies, minds and souls over with your award-winning personality. That or I’m gonna recc you, since we’re affiliated with ‘em. Then, you’re gonna ask your landlord or landlady or landroyalty in general to let you off the hook with this month’s payment since we’re only halfway through. You’re gonna cash some shit in for beautiful, beautiful money on eBay, high-end pawn shop of the fuckin’ century, you’re gonna box the rest of your shit up, you’re gonna call your friends, and you’re gonna do some couchhopping ‘til you find some cheaper digs.”

“I don’t have any friends to call, I told you that,” you growl.

“Bull-shit,” Dave replies instantly. “You have friends you just don’t wanna call. Newsflash, Kitkat: you’ve got no fuckin’ choice. Phone ‘em up,” he orders, tossing you his house’s voicepager.

You stare at the numbers despairingly. You know Terezi and Gamzee would let you stay at either of their houses, but you honestly can’t deal with either of them right now. That leaves –

_“ – thure, KK, juth pack up your pith-poor excuth for a life and don’t come before theven.”_

“Wait, like, tonight?” you pause, eyes widening as you wait for the other line.

“ _Yeah, ‘like, tonight,’ moron. Make thure and bring any gameth you got_ ,” he adds. The line clicks dead before you have a chance to reply.

“Can’t wait to see you too, _athhole_ ,” you mutter into the ringing phone before hanging it back to Strider.

“See, everything’s chill like the motherfuckin’ arctic tundra up in this joint.” Dave has apparently taken a trip into the kitchen to grab the frying pan, since he is holding the pan out to you, offering the remaining scraps of eggs.

You wave him off. “No, it’s not even _close_ to ‘chill,’ Strider. I’ve got a fucking mountain of student debt that I’m about as likely to pay off as oinkbeasts are fucking likely to sprout skyrat wings and take to the goddamn skies.”

“So you’re a student.” Strider raises his brows. “Ain’t there classes right about now at Wherever-The-Fuck U?”

“Of course there are fucking classes. And it’s the School of Genetics, Radiobiology –”

“– stop, stop, too much nerdtalk,” Strider cuts you off. “I get it, you go to SGRUB. Nice campus and shit. So,” he continues around a mouthful of egg, “stick around and milk the most outta what you paid for. You’ll get a better job when you graduate, probs, so just focus on that shit.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mutter mutinously.

“Yeah,” Dave shrugs. “Most of the time I just figure I’ll get my shit together later. Now check out Exhibit A. Look at my painstakingly delicately packaged shit, sitting in perfectly symmetrical piles on satin fuckin’ doilies. Marvel at how together my shit is, Kitkat.”

“Ohmygod, my nugbone is going to fucking _explode_ in a singular entropic firework if I stay in this house for one more second than is necessary,” you seethe.

“Oh yeah. Go get your ass to your next class,” Strider urges, making a shooing motion at you that only serves to irritate you further. “Make sure and drop by when you get the job.”

“Fuck no, I have absolute-zero intentions of barging back into your respiteblock and bleeding on more of your shit.”

“I meant the bar,” Strider smirks slightly. You blush and hate yourself for it.

“Garrr, I can’t with you, Strider. Good _bye_ ,” you growl, trudging down the hall.

“Door’s the other way,” he calls after you. Flushing brighter red, you storm the other direction and almost slam the door on your way out – but then you feel kind of bad. You were lucky Strider was there last night and not some asshole who would have dumped you outside. You stick your head back in the doorway for a moment.

“...thanks,” you bark sharply, and _then_ you slam the door behind you.

**=== > Cool. Now be the _important_ character.**

You are now the Imparial Narrator, and, why, you would be _honored_ to assume the narrative duties of this – tee hee – rather peculiar chain of incidents. You’re sure everyone understands.

Karkat comes by The Green Sun the following day at around 9 or so, sits at the bar, and waits. Only a couple minutes pass before he hears the familiar, smooth voice.

“Yo, Kitkat. Wasn’t sure if you were gonna make it or not,” Dave comments with a slight smile. “What can I get ya.”

“Urr...a lime rickey, I guess?”

“You askin’ me?” he teases, already moving towards the gin on the wall behind them. “So you got the job.”

“Yeah,” Karkat sighs. “My boss is a hyperactive incompetent doofus, but what the fuck ever, I’m not complaining at this point.”

“Sounds an awful lot like complainin’ to me. Can’t fuckin’ blame you, though. Egderp’s a character,” Dave snorts. “Watch out for pies, Kitkat.”

“Pies?” Karkat echoes. “What the fuck are you talking about, we don’t sell any fucking pies.”

“Just watch your back or John will personally introduce it to his baked goods of legend,” Dave warns. “It’ll be a fuckin’ Dixie cocktail party meet n’ greet. ‘ _Betty Lou, let me introduce you to my dear neighbor, Dotty Beauregard. She’s Tommy Lee’s second cousin_ ,” he twangs in a sing-song voice, playing up his Southern accent.

“Please, _please_ feel the adoring sincerity in my squawk blister when I say: shut the fuck up. I have too much stupid in my life already.” Karkat glances over the counter. “Who the fuck are the rest of these idiots anyway.”

“Who, the other bartenders? Karkat, don’t tell me you’ve got eyes for Eridan fuckin’ Ampora. Don’t let me hear those words fall from your – what’d you call it – ‘squawk blister’.”

“I’m not – fuck you, douchenugget,” Karkat growls, “I just asked a simple question: _who the fuck are they_?”

“No need to bite, Kitkat, jeez. See, it’s funny ‘cause your name has ‘cat’ in it.”

“Don’t curse the blithering meowbeasts with me, too,” Karkat groans.

“‘K, so the douche with the scarf is obviously Eridan,” Dave motions casually to his left, “and the other fish-troll is Feferi. She’s pretty cool, gets a lot of guys. Eridan’s been pining over her since Day 1.”

“Gross,” Karkat groans, though he sighs in a way that sounds almost wistful. You find this amusing. Dave probably does, too, but he elects to not mention it.

“Aradia works in the dining section, over there –”

“– wait, there’s a dining section?”

“Yeah, but no one who’s tasted the exquisite cuisine from the ‘Green Kitchen’ can handle the legendary collision of milk curdles and penicillin bread farms for round two,” Dave explains, “so she doesn’t do much, I guess.”

“Who the fuck’s in the kitchen?” Karkat asks scornfully.

“ _Equius_. Like a bull in a fuckin’ orchid plantation. Plus he adds too much milk to everything,” Dave actually winces in disgust, “like in shit that should never be in a five mile radius of cows and cow byproducts.”

“Ech,” Karkat fake gags.

“Yeah. So that’s the normal crew. Rose works here part-time, but you’ll see her visiting Egbert and Harley over at Spacetime.” You, with the ~~vague omniscience~~ modest knowledge that comes with being the Impartial Narrator, know that Dave is referring to The Green Sun’s sister coffee bar, The Spacetime Café.

“That’s a lot of trolls for a restaurant in a human district.”

“Yeah, well, trolls work for less and the boss is cheap. Doc’s never been happy about it,” Dave admits, “but when you run a shithole you take whoever you can get.” He pauses, looking Karkat up and down. “Wow, you tossed that one back like a college frat boy. Oh, wait.”

“I’m not in one of your human brotherly cesspitblocks,” Karkat corrects testily. “I wouldn’t be looking for fucking pullout couches if I were.”

“‘K, but easy on the rickeys, dude. Don’t need an instant replay of two nights ago.” Karkat doesn’t reply, and Dave almost looks concerned.

_“Back to you, Ingrid.”_

_“Thank you, Mark. Coming to you from New Austin, we have breaking news,” – the traditional “breaking news” music plays at this point – “to report outside the Green St. Opera House. Another representative has been found dead – Senator Calista “Callie” Hope collapsed outside the opera house around 8:30 tonight. Cause of death is yet to be determined. More updates coming soon.”_

Everyone within earshot of the television has fallen silent at this point, as Dave and Karkat slowly turn to look at each other.

“You don’t think…” Karkat trails off, staring in horror. “Was she –”

“You got it.” Dave reaches behind the counter, fishing around until he produces a half-crumpled receipt and reads it. “...yep. Shit.”

“What?” Karkat demands, all hair on end.

“Callie Hope. Ordered a Liquid Sunshine at 6:30pm. Paid at 7 with a Visa.” Dave stares at the paper for a few more unnecessary seconds. “Looks like we’ve got a serial killer barfly on the loose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so SO very sorry for the long delay since the last update!! The end of the year took a lot more out of me than I was bargaining on – but now I'm freeeeeeee, and, assuming that remains the case, I'm hoping to publish about one chapter a week until the end of the summer or until this finally reaches its conclusion – whichever comes first, I guess!  
> Hee hee murder. So I didn't realize that I was pretty much writing a mystery fanfic until suddenly I looked down and said, "Wow, this is becoming a mystery fanfic...rad." No worries, the davekat will be rich and abundant throughout the entire plotline.  
> Hope y'all liked the update – and as always, comments are more than welcome, so feel free to leave a message down yonder!! :D


	4. And There Is Hope Within Despair

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you _need_ Egbert to stop fucking around with Dave.

No, it’s not a jealous flushcrush that has you leering at your whimsical shitmonkey of a boss. It’s the fact that he’s been sitting there with Strider for upwards of 45 minutes now, _doing nothing but card tricks_ , while you have actual _important_ things to discuss with Shades McDouche. You’re not particularly sure why you have to discuss these actual important things with the shitsponge supreme, but after last night, as Strider would say, you’ve been “in the motherfuckin’ _trenches_ together,” so there’s no use in questioning it now. In fact –

**=== > Witness a glorious blast from the past.**

You are now Karkat from last night, and you are flipping all the shit pancakes. All of them.

“What the fuck do you _mean_ we have a serial killer barfly?” you hiss, because you honestly cannot afford to have a serial killer barfly on the loose in the joint next to your one and only source of income. This was not in the guidebook, this was not in the fucking itinerary, and you want off the goddamn terrortrolley right this fucking instant.

“So when a man and woman love each other very much, sometimes they give birth to a shitstain who grows up to repetitively murder the same type of person because the king of the jungle gym stole one too many jelly beans.”

You aren’t really paying attention to Strider’s bullshit. “I’m going to die. We’re all going to fucking die,” you state blandly, staring at a ring on the hardwood countertop. Someone must have left it there before the finish was put on. That’s too bad. Not that it matters, because you’re all going to _fucking die._

“Dude,” Strider interrupts your mental spiraling descent to nihilism, his eyebrows knitting together. He just kind of waits for a second as you release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, and stop clenching your fists quite so tightly. Little beads of blood are welling up where your claws punctured your palm, you realize, which stresses you out just a little bit more.

“This guy’s been going after senators, Kitkat. Now, you’re one hell of a special snowflake, but you’re also working part-time in a coffee shop with a total of four employees,” Strider points out. “And we both know if he’s going after baristas, he’s taking Egderp out first.”

You snort at that. “Well, I guess I’ll shake his hand before he stabs me in the squeal pipette.”

Strider smiles slightly but doesn’t reply to that. You don’t think it’s that ludicrous for you to be scared shitless by the fact that you were in the same 200 square feet or so as a potential serial killer; at the same time, you feel a flush of shame. _I’m pathetic_ , you begrudge yourself.

“You want another drink? A beer or something?” Dave prods. You shake your head.

“Do you have a towel?” you ask quietly.

“...gross. You’re tellin’ me Equius doesn’t sweat enough for you guys. Do all trolls have blimped-up sweat glands or something?”

“I’m not- it’s not- god _dammit_ Strider!” you snarl indignantly. Strider raises his brows at you in question, so you ignore the instinctual, mosquito-esque whine at the back of your throat as you glance around, then quickly flash him your hands. There’s really not that much blood, but you _really_ can’t afford to take any risks.

Strider glances down, shifts from behind the counter, and hands you a dirty bar rag, half-smiling almost apologetically. You dry off your hands, dabbing carefully to stop the bleeding, and hand the towel back to him. “Thanks,” you mutter.

Strider takes the towel back, tossing it on the ground behind him. “Listen, I’m gonna stop next door tomorrow. What time do you put on your foxy Starbucks apron?”

You narrow your eyes. “I get on at fuck-you-o’clock.”

“So _forward_ , Kitkat. If I didn’t know any better I’d think you’ve been gettin’ your tactics from the tsundere ladies.”

“Shut your seedflap, nookwhiffer.”

“B-b-b- _baka_ ,” Dave stammers, and evidently the douchenozzle finds himself funny enough to laugh, grinning out of the corner of his mouth. You roll your eyes, scowling with annoyance.

Strider doesn’t fully resume his perpetual deadpan, a smile still ghosting his face, lifting his entire expression. “Nah, but seriously, we should make a plan of attack and all that shit. We’re goin’ full Napoleon on this guy’s ass like you’ll never believe, Karkat. We’re in the motherfuckin –”

“– we’re in the _motherfuckin’ trenches_ , okay, I get it, stop moving your squawk gaper,” you click, a rapid sound from the back of your throat. Strider’s expression doesn’t change but you can feel him positively _beaming_ on the inside. He waits, and you sigh. “I start my shift at three but I don’t get off until nine, so come as late as you can. There won’t be as many people.”

“Catch me if I swoon, Kitkat. Candlelit coffee dates and long walks on the beach just take my goddamn breath away.”

You left after that. You didn’t realize until you got home that you forgot about the bill.

**=== > Return to the depressingly inescapable present.**

Luckily for you, no one enters Spacetime after eight. Good thing, because, unluckily for you, your pisslord boss continues with his inept card trickery until then, when, by some miracle, he remembers one of the wonderful alternatives to occupying the same space as you, and graciously gets the fuck out.

“Kitkat,” Strider greets briefly, saluting gravely.

You consider making a comment about Egbert (or, rather, bemoaning his existence), but you remember that he and Strider are best friends, so you hold your tongue. “Strider,” you reply.

“So here’s what I’ve been thinking,” he prefaces. You’re vaguely surprised that he doesn’t take a minute or five to mock your neon green apron, which you think has something to do with the fact that The Green Sun is Spacetime’s sister restaurant, although you neither know nor care. Perhaps Egbert suctioned up too much time for Dave to participate in his favorite pastime.

“If they’re,” Strider motions broadly in a way that does nothing to specify who “they” are, “sayin’ that both of these senators were nixxed via Miracle-Gro Martinis or whatever-the-fuck, then it happened right under our sniffity-snouts. Or whatever you guys call ‘em.”

“Right under our...oh for fuck’s sake.” you growl. “They’re called _cartilaginous nubs_. You spongedead shitsack,” you add as an afterthought.

“Right. So they were poisoned right under our sniffity-snouts right in the middle of happy hour, because neither of them got here before six and neither of ‘em left after eight. So that means –”

“– what the fuck is ‘happy hour’?” you ask, frowning. “And why is it called that if it’s longer than an hour?”

“Karkat, askin’ the real questions there. Next thing you know, you’ll be sittin’ in the middle of Greece in a full-up toga get-up. They’ll build a temple for you outta Plato’s Guide to Prison Shadow-Puppetry –”

“– just answer the question, dunderfuck,” you glare at him, peeved.

“It’s when everyone gets out of work and hits the bar, ‘cause their lives suck and all,” Dave explains.

“Oh.” You think it’s kind of weird and kind of cool how humans are always so social. You always went back to your flat whenever class was over or you got out of work, but you were always pretty lonely in your tiny shithole excuse for a shoebox. It’s actually been pretty nice living with someone again, even if Sollux is a dick. (...he’s not, really. You think he’s just spadethirsty.)

“Yeah, so anyway,” Strider catches your attention again, “there were enough people in there that we might have missed whatever happened. If crazy-killer-dude made his move at the same time both nights, and he used the same shit, then there might be more similarities,” he points out.

“Why’s it matter? The police is on it, anyway,” you retort.

“It matters because the police aren’t thinking about finding a calling card or anything,” Strider explains. “They’re gonna be doin’ the normal looking for traces, footprints, all that. But they haven’t found shit yet, so I don’t think they’re gonna find anything else.” He pauses thoughtfully. “The staff knows more specifics about the bar than they’ll ever be able to figure out. And see, I don’t think cyanide-happy here’s gonna stick around too long.”

“So, let me get this straight,” you start dryly. “You told me last night that we’re safe because we’re irrelevant. And now you want to become relevant by joining up with the investigunmen.”

“Investigators,” Strider corrects.

“Why the fuck would you ever associate investigunmen with chompbeasts?”

“See, about one out of every 50,000 human babies ends up being half-croc,” Strider explains, “so we’ve been taking advantage of their reptilian expertise and training them from the get-go.”

“...whatever,” you glare, not completely sure whether or not he’s spewing bullshit. “Anyway, the answer is a resounding, earthshattering no. I am not putting my neck on the line when we’ve got a perfectly good police force to figure it out themselves.”

“C’mon, Kitkat, you don’t wanna have to worry about this guy for the next five years, right?” Strider presses. “I mean, these types of investigations can totally go on that long. Besides, Poison-Dart-Frogman won’t know we have anything to do with it.”

“Mmrh,” you grunt noncomittally.

“You’re not gonna make me do this all alone, are you?” Dave’s expression doesn’t change, but you can hear the almost begging in his voice, you can picture the beckoning smile on his face…

“...” You shift uncomfortably. “...I’ll –”

**=== > Be the asshole.**

_???_

**=== > Sorry, that wasn’t specific enough. Be the asshole with the shades.**

“– do it.”

Wow, you weren’t expecting that. Christmas has come early. Santa’s shimmyin’ the fuck down that chimney, the reindeer are outside the window trying to fuck each other with spring fever in the middle of October, there are fifty covers of “O Come All Ye Faithful” throttling your speaker system, and Kitkat just agreed to help you with a motherfuckin’ murder mystery.

“Cool,” you say, defaulting to your normal restraint because that’s just the most exciting shit in your life since you signed off on your V-card.

“Yeah. Fine. So what’s first on our incredible itinerary of idiocy?” Karkat hisses. You see a tinge of red on his face, although it could just be the dusklight.

“Well, I was thinkin’ I’d crosscheck accounts of what happened both nights. Ask other staff about what they saw, like if there were any other people who showed up both nights, check receipts, that kind of stuff.”

“Okay. So what do you need me for?” Karkat raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Well. I dunno. Probably nothing in the bar.” You think for a moment. “Oh yeah, why don’t you check the senators’ reps?”

“Check their reps?” he echoes, frowning.

“Yeah, like what they’re known for and stuff. Check up on news reports, voting records, protests in their states, got it?”

“And then see if there was anything they had in common. Okay,” Karkat agrees.

“Gimme your chumhandle. I’ll message you if I find anything.”

Karkat stares at you for a second, like his tongue’s six feet away doin’ the worm on the premium tiled floor, before he snaps back to full attention. “Yeah,” he says, and gives you his handle.

“No, no, you can’t give it to me like _that._ You gotta write it on a coffee cup.”

“Strider, I will enjoy a cup of bleach and chase it down with ammonia before I taint the art of romance with your cretinous, thinkpanless tomfuckery.”

“Yeah, I should probably check the menu first,” you continue. “Let’s see...you got pumpkin spice?”

“No.”

“It’s October.”

“Fuck you.”

“You make this too easy, Kitkat,” you chide. “Besides, aren’t you s’posed to be _selling_ coffee?”

Karkat’s eyes narrow to vaguely luminescent yellow slits. He doesn’t say anything, so you resume your order.

“‘K, I’ll have a pumpkin spice latte, 3 pump, nonfat, extra shot, sweetened with Splenda,” you ponder for a second, “extra hot, upside down.”

“Upside down?” Karkat- well, you don’t really know what the fuck that noise that is. Sometimes Karkat makes this kind of raspy noise, kinda like a rattlesnake, and he can do it while he’s talking, too. You think it’s secret troll code for pissed, but not, like, _really_ pissed.

“Yeah, like the espresso shot goes on top and the top stuff goes on the bottom. Get it together, coffee gremlin.” You don’t really know where that name came from, but it gets the desired effect, as Kitkat growls and storms away to stir some element of your order.

You wait about a minute. “Hey Karkat?”

“What, Strider-human.”

“Can you make the foam 2%?”

You hear a low growl from the counter. “Goddammit, Strider, I already made the foam. I put the foam on the bottom.”

“No, no, you keep the foam on the top, Kitkat.”

“But you said to put the top stuff on the bottom!” he exclaims exasperatedly.

“Yeah, but if you do that with the foam, it, like, defoams.”

Karkat groans. “Yegh. Fine. I’ll make it again.”

“No, don’t do that. I’m messin’ with you. I don’t actually care, Karkat, it’s not like the taste is gonna change.” You feel kind of bad.

“Strider, if I can’t make _one drink_ for a customer, then I’m fucked.” Now you feel _really_ bad. You get the feeling Karkat has enough of an inferiority complex as is.

You think about telling Karkat not to worry about it, but you think that’ll make it worse. So you let him make your impossible order, and he gets it perfect this time, flawless, masterpiece work up in this joint, 10/10 would order again. He even makes the foam with the 2% milk, which you think is ridiculous since any difference between types of milk in the first place is completely fuckin’ irrelevant when it’s all bubbles, anyway.

“It’s on the house,” he rasps, setting it on the table in front of you with a loud huff.

“What the fuck, Karkat,” you frown slightly. “Let me pay for my obnoxious drink –”

“– no, Strider, I know you let me go without paying the tab last night,” Karkat snaps. “Let me at least _attempt_ to support myself.” You wince a little on the inside. You _did_ let him go without saying anything yesterday, just because he seemed to really need the pick-me-up, but you didn’t think he’d...take it personally?

“Besides,” the tension in his face lightens a bit, “it was good practice for all the bullshit orders that’ll come from those prepubescent nimshits.”

Well, you figure that protesting would do more harm than good. “‘K. Thanks, Kitkat,” you say, testing out your disgustingly sweet espresso pumpkin…”creation.” It tastes the way a suburban housewife’s lifeless smile looks. Perfect.

**=== > That was sweet. Now be the important character.**

You could be the important character. But you don’t _want_ to be the important character. It’s a lot of responsibility that you probably don’t have time for right now!

**=== > Fine. Be the other important character.**

_???_

**=== > Sorry, that wasn’t specific enough. Be the other important character with the shades.**

Your name is, once again, Dave Strider, and you deeply regret not digitalizing your receipts while you had the fucking chance.

When you got back to The Green Sun, there were Dunkin Donuts levels of policemen crammed near the entrance and up inside the kitchen, clangin’ through kitchenware like profoundly uncoordinated gorillas-turned-percussionists who got pity-hired for $20 an hour because, and you quote, “everyone’s got the music in them somewhere.” They’re goin’ straight to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame right after the elephants finish taking one colossal shit in the MOMA. Anyhow, the police weren’t about to let you in, but you’ve got silver in your tongue, gold in your mind, and a Chipotle gift card in your wallet, so you were pretty much set from the get-go.

So here you are, looking through a skyhigh stack of receipts, every tab for the week, pulling each one off the nail in the middle like you’re the newest face at the local funeral home, doin’ some spring cleaning up in the chest cavity of some dead guy before you ship him off to get buried in some unmarked grave. And so far you haven’t found shit.

You see the name _Anita_ and throw the scrap into the pile of not-senators, wondering why the retirement center hit up your bar last night because fuck if you’ve ever met someone under 70 named Anita. Not that – _Jay Goldsworthy_ – you think it’s a bad name or – _Betsy Long_ – anything, you actually kinda – _Susan Droll_ – like it, because hell if – _Adam_ – you ain’t – _Tyler_ – tired of hearin’ the same – _Adam (II?)_ – ten – _Katherine_ – over and over again. Oh, there you go. That’s Jane’s bill.

“Mixed nuts,” you snort quietly to yourself, “Cosmopolitan, Moscow Kickass, Liquid Sunshine.”

You remember that Senator Crocker wasn’t here all that long, so you’re pretty impressed that she downed three drinks with a side of cashews or whatever the fuck’s in those mixed nuts cans anyway. You look the rest of the bill over, but there’s nothing else to find, with no notes or anything on the paper strip. You have the last four digits of her credit card number, which could come in handy, you guess. Today’s the day Dave Strider exits the culinary arts or otherwise and takes to the streets to fulfill his incredible wanderlust. Sorry, Crocker, but your dough’s goin’ to the legendary cause of supporting Nepal’s tourism industry. The West can go fuck itself.

You don’t see anything else important on there, so you put the receipt off to the side and start going through the wad of bills from two days ago.

“Dave Stri-glub!” You look up and see Feferi and Aradia in the kitchen doorway. Damn, Strider, your “mad skillz” are turnin’ butterknife levels of dull, like this blade ain’t gettin’ through the fuckin’ gouda, ‘cause they must have been in the kitchen this entire time but damned if you heard anything.

“Hey,” you greet eloquently, resuming your hunt for both the receipt and the finer things in life.

“What’re you doing?” Aradia asks, inspecting your minor nest of weird, crinkly-ass paper curiously with her typical bright, wide eyes.

“The usual. Trackin’ down mass murderers via carrier pigeon tech.”

“Mass murderers?” Feferi squeaks.

“Oh, so you’re helping with the investigation!” Aradia smiles broadly. “That sounds like so much fun!!”

“Yeah, don’t hold your breath,” you mutter. “I just came in and started pokin' around random shit.”

“Whale, that’s still something!” Feferi encourages. “Besides, we all know everything aboat The Green Sun. They’re bound to miss something or otter!”

“Maybe. I dunno. There’re so many bills left,” you point out. “Findin’ the damn thing before the end of the night’s the best I can –”

– _hope._

Right, there it is, on the counter where you left it last night. Hope. No, you fuckin’ moron, Calista Hope, paid on Visa. Good job, Striderp, you just lost at least ten minutes of your life.

“Well, good luck!” Aradia grins in that gamma-ray-intense way of hers that’s almost creepy but not in the bad way, you guess, and then she and Feferi split like long, phallic gifts of the trees.

You shuffle over to the countertop and spot the wadded up piece of paper not too far away. You already know what’s on it, but nothing’s clicking for you, so you carefully uncrumple the receipt and scan it over for similarities.

A couple seconds later, you're typing with unusual frantic excitement.

** –– turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist  [CG] at 22:09 –– **

** TG: heyyo kitkat big news **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, sorry for the delay and happy to be updating!! (Whew, especially after the most emotional REAL upd8 of my life...ack Dave) There was originally going to be more plot in this chapter, but I found myself writing much more dialogue than I originally intended, so I figured I'd go ahead and just split the chapter so you guys can have this now!! Next chapter will hopefully be up in the next week, especially since I already have it mapped out ^u^ as always, thanks so so much for reading, feel free to leave comments, and hope you enjoy!!


	5. How Could Something So Fair Be So Cruel

**=== > Be the asshole.**

_You_ are the assholiest asshole, throwing around these multiapplicable titles left and right and expecting me to know what you want from me.

Why do you do this to yourself? I feel like I’m the only one putting any effort into this relationship. I wait on you prong and fucking nub and here you are, lounging around like a 50-year-old beerbellied redneck and you tell me what? “Be the asshole”? Oh, I’ll show you an asshole. I’ll show you, you frothymouthed anal plug. Bottoms up, sucker.

This is stupid.

**=== > Be the asshole without the shades.**

Well, alright then.

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you don’t know where to start with these scumbag politicians.

Well, you take that back. Senator Crocker and Senator Hope are pretty mild-mannered in public forum, you notice. They both have a distinct lack of scandals, and you see nothing even moderately provocative on their social media pages. In fact, as of now, you see no reason why anyone would want to assassinate these lovely women. Er, you aren’t actually sure if you should call a cherub a “woman,” since you yourself can’t imagine being called a “man.” It sounds so...mammalian. And hairy. Yegh.

You opt to search through some Crocker hate pages to see what shitstew is brewing there.

You are promptly disappointed. There is nothing to see there but about 90 pages of complaints about CrockerCorp and the dangers of integrating capitalism in with politics. You have come to the understanding, over your two sweeps in New Austin, that capitalism is a system that does not involve dragging the bodies of dead lowbloods through the streets to feed various five-story-high lusii, so you really don’t care where capitalism sticks its ass.

Most of the comments are the same rambling, so you search “Calista Hope capitalism” in your browser’s seekerslot and sift through the results.

You find zilch fucking squat. Most of the results are useless speculation or even accuse Hope of being, in one user’s eloquent phrasings, a COMMuNIST WHORE.

You scroll through Hope’s Wikipedia page for the third time today, hoping to glean some new niblet of even vaguely useful information. You’ve been keeping Strider updated on your findings (or lack thereof); in turn, Strider has been making an art of spewing nonsensical hoofbeastshit from every orifice of his body, with the careful artistic choice of using your computer screen as the medium. He occasionally mentions what he’s working on, so you know he’s at least capable of productive labor, but he apparently has nothing to talk about other than how dude wtf troll kardashians ass is like a fuckin pancake. But you digress. You’re in the middle of reading about Hope’s experience at boarding school in Great Britain when you’re startled by the familiar voice of a raging, lisping douchecan.

“Think she’th hot, KK?” Sollux grins from over your shoulder.

“Fucking fuck, Sollux,” you yelp.

“Wimp.”

“You bulgelicker. One of these days, I will fucking _skewer_ you, and it’ll be one hundred fucking percent your own fault,” you warn, growling slightly.

“Wow, keep your thpadeth in your panths, KK.”

You open your mouth to respond irately, but at that moment you hear an iconic _pop_ , indicating that you have a message, and in two seconds – and yeah, you’re sure it’s a literal goddamn _two_ seconds – Sollux has wrestled your hands off your husktop and is reading through your conversation with Dave, holding you at bay quite literally with his batshitting psionics. You float, immobilized, about two feet off the ground.

“Who the fuck ith ‘turntechGodhead’?” Sollux snorts, scrolling leisurely with two fingers on the trackpad.

“Why don’t you take your bifurcated bulge and stick it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sollux waves you off without looking back at you. You can barely see over his shoulder, even though he’s hunched over, so you don’t know what he’s reading, nor do you really want to know.

A couple minutes later he looks back at you with a shiteating grin. “Didn’t know you had thuch a fetish for dithguthting pink monkey ath.”

You don’t dignify this bullshit with a response, and bare your teeth and growl until the psionics sizzle out and drop you on the ground. You land on your ass and barely restrain yourself from _launching fang-first at his meal shaft and dominating this dildoheaded_ – okay, wow, yeah, back to the whole restraining yourself piece. You need your husktop back.

Luckily (or is it luckily? No, you don’t have time to think about this right now) Sollux just gets up, smirks dirtily at you, and leaves. You never know how serious he’s being with his blackflirting and that just serves to piss you off more. You crash angrily back into your chair and see what new and exciting bullshit Strider threw your way this time.

\--turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 22:09 --

TG: heyyo kitkat big news

CG: STRIDER. WHAT A FUCKING PLEASURE.

CG: DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING VALUABLE TO CONTRIBUTE TO OUR CONTINUING EFFORTS TO RESOLVE A NATIONAL TRAGEDY? OR DID YOU FEEL THE NEED TO SHARE YOUR FEELINGS ON THE SEXUAL APPEAL OF YET ANOTHER REVERED ALTERNIAN FAMILY?

TG: dude who put the fuckin tarantula hawk in your bonnet

CG: IT’S NOTHING. WHAT’S THE NEWS?

TG: ok so i didnt ask before but like

TG: whats with the caps

TG: my metaphorical ears are being blasted by vantas squared like theres a megaphone gettin intimate with my psychic aural canals

TG: im gonna go imaginary deaf bro

CG: IT’S AN ELEMENT OF ALTERNIAN CULTURE.

TG: but like why

TG: are all trolls perpetually angry or something

CG: NO, IDIOT, NOT ALL TROLLS HAVE THE SAME QUIRK. WE ALL ARE TAUGHT TO TYPE A CERTAIN WAY FROM OUR LUSII.

CG:  sOME OF THEM ARE MOSTLY, PUNCTUATION, LIKE THIS,,,

CG:  other2 rely more on letter 2ub2tiitutiion, liike thii2 one.

TG: ok ok enough with the troll culture lesson i get it

CG: GOOD, THAT FELT FUCKING DISGUSTING.

TG: k thats weird but whatever

TG: anyway news time

TG: 5:50 in the morning this just in

TG: coming to you in your bathrobe standing in the middle of the driveway

TG: waiting for the kawaii paper boy to throw the most interesting part of your day to the next door neighbor again

CG: STRIDER, WHAT IS THE FUCKING NEWS.

TG: the alarms are ringing off the walls kitkat

TG: scooby doo is barking his way off his fuckin rocker like hes got rabies in the brain

TG: we have found

TG: a motherfuckin clue

CG: INCREDIBLE. I AM WEAK AT THE KNEES WITH AWE THAT IN THE OCEAN OF YOUR INEPTITUDE, THE SEA GODS LEFT US ALL A FUCKING ISLAND OF COMPETENCE. MERCY WAS UPON US THIS BLESSED DAY.

TG: honored by your faith kitkat

TG: blushin like a fuckin virgin right here

CG: NO, BUT SERIOUSLY, WHAT DID YOU FIND.

TG: well

TG: our lady calista here ordered a liquid sunshine

CG: WHAT THE FUCK IS A LIQUID SUNSHINE. IS THIS A METAPHOR?

TG: no dude its the name of a drink

TG: its like a dandelion cocktail

CG: OH.

TG: yeah

TG: well it turns out that another liquid sunshine was ordered by none other than the sweet senator jane crocker

TG: so that probably means something

TG: maybe

CG: HMM.

CG: THAT’S ACTUALLY HELPFUL.

TG: so i found a motherfuckin clue

CG: YES, YOU FOUND A MOTHERFUCKING CLUE.

CG: GOOD JOB, STRIDER.

TG: yeah cause what i was tryin to figure out was

TG: why would it actually matter what they were drinking if someone was just putting something in

TG: but then it all just kinda made sense like

TG: they both were surrounded by guards

TG: so no random bozo could of put something in right

TG: one of the bartenders could of brought something else and added it

CG: BUT THEY’RE HIGH PROFILE POLITICIANS, AND NEITHER OF THEM WAS AN IDIOT. THEY WOULD HAVE HAD SOMEONE WATCHING THE DRINKS BEING MADE, RIGHT?

TG: thats what i thought

TG: so it wouldve made a lot more sense for whoever it was to put the poison in some part of the drink before those two even showed up

CG: OH MY GOD.

CG: I TAKE BACK EVERYTHING, STRIDER, YOU ACTUALLY HAVE MORE THAN TWO THINKPAN UNITS TO RUB TOGETHER.

TG: easy kitkat you got me tearin up here

TG: never thought id see dave strider graduate from karkat’s camp for moronic clusterfucks

CG: HEY, NEITHER DID I. TODAY IS JUST FULL OF SURPRISES.

CG: ANYWAY.

CG: DID YOU GET THE INGREDIENTS FOR YOUR SUNSHINE BULLSHIT TESTED YET?

TG: workin on it

**=== > Work on it.**

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re sick of waiting for donut break to be over.

Luckily, you don’t have to wait much longer for some puffy, vaguely angry looking officer to meander back into the building. He looks at you like you’re not supposed to be there, even though he was there when the overseeing officer gave you the thumbs up to join. You kinda hate condescending people like that.

“Hey,” you beckon, catching his attention. “Question.”

“Yes?” he answers unenthusiastically as you approach him.

“You tested this yet?” you ask, thrusting out a small bottle towards him. His hand immediately grips his gun and you realize in retrospect that it’s probably a little stupid of you to make sudden movements, but whatever. He takes the bottle out of your hand, eyeing you.

“What is this.”

“Dandelion extract.”

“Yep. Clean.” He holds the bottle back out and you take it, maintaining a neutral expression.

“Cool.” You walk back to the bar, sighing dramatically as you take your phone back out.

TG: no dice

CG: THAT SUCKS. I THOUGHT WE REALLY HAD SOMETHING THERE.

CG: YOU TESTED EVERYTHING?

TG: yep

TG: gin and tonic were tested already and the extract was clean too

CG: OK. DID YOU TEST THE GARNISH?

TG: what

CG: DON’T MOST SPECIALTY COCKTAILS DRESS THEMSELVES UP WITH USELESS, AESTHETICALLY PLEASING SPRIGS OF RANDOM PLANTS?

TG: well no

TG: i mean sometimes i guess

TG: at like high end places

CG: I ALWAYS SEE YOU HUMANS DRINKING GLASSES WITH MINIATURE FUCKING GARDENS IN THEM.

TG: well maybe thats why youre broke af

CG: FUCK OFF.

TG: im sorry

CG: ...

CG: I GUESS YOU’RE JUST TELLING IT LIKE IT IS.

CG: ANYWAY.

CG: GARNISH.

TG: lemme double check

You mill around the boxes in the back, flipping through half-lidded cartons of limes and cheap packets of pepper that someone grabbed for you from a fast food restaurant when Doc decided not to order any more. You’re surprised when you find a shoebox full of dandelions.

TG: motherfuckin jackpot

CG: INCREDIBLE. AND, FOR ONCE IN HIS MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A LIFE, KARKAT PULLS THE TEAM TOWARDS VICTORY AND AWAY FROM FUCKING EVERYTHING UP YET AGAIN.

TG: let me shake your goddamn hand

TG: look at that

TG: your hand is as shook as fuckin papa doc

TG: aint no such thing as halfway crooks

CG: STOP. STOP THIS BULLSHIT OR SO HELP ME I WILL SCRAPE OUT MY LOOKSTUBS WITH A TOOTHPICK TO SPARE MYSELF ANOTHER SENTENCE OF YOUR NONSENSE.

TG: dude ouch

TG: you could at least use a qtip

TG: pad that process up a little bit

CG: FUCK NO. THAT WOULD MAKE IT EVEN WORSE, SHIT-FOR-BRAINS.

TG: no it wouldnt

CG: YES IT WOULD.

TG: no it wouldnt

CG: YES, IT WOULD.

TG: no

CG: YES

TG: no

CG: YES

TG: nope

CG: YES

TG: no

CG: STOP.

TG: k

At this point, you’re standing in front of Officer Douchepants, explaining to him exactly why you’re showing him a shoebox full of half-wilted weeds. He scowls at you with beady little eyes. You wonder why these people choose careers that drive ‘em up the wall like Sonic the fuckin’ hedgehog and send them to contribute to their future liver failure on a nightly basis. Then again, your livelihood kinda depends on them doing just that, so you conveniently remember to stop questioning it.

“You want us t’ test this?” he grumbles, tromping back into the kitchen. He emerges again with a bottle of clear liquid and a handful of strips.

“Here. Make yerself usef’l.”

You accept the materials, balancing them precariously on top of the shoebox. You sit down at the bar and read the back of the bottle. Or you would be, anyway, if the manufacturers hadn’t gathered around the Toshiba in the conference room, put the cursor on the font size, and said, “Fuck the police.” You’re lookin’ at, like, size 2.5 font right here. This is bullshit.

When you squint and tip your shades up, you can make out just enough to see that the thingy goes in the whoo-whoo. Those strips are gonna penetrate the hell out of that...whatever the hell’s in the bottle. And you can see that the bottle stuff and the shit that you’re testing are...well, they’re supposed to go together, you know that much. So naturally, you pour a shot of the test liquid, stick a couple dandelions in a blender, puree the hell outta them, and drop in a couple pinches of the bright green mush. You stir it around for good measure, then dunk one of the strips in.

The bottom of the strip slowly shifts color. You give it a couple minutes, watching keenly, until there’s a block of solid red.

“Hey,” you yell. You don’t get a response, but you know sound travels from the bar to the kitchen, so you figure Fuzzmaster’s blowing you off. “What does red mean?”

“Means you ain’t found squat,” he barks from the other room. You frown, dumping the mix.

TG: might as well start callin me bad luck brian now kitkat

CG: THERE YOU ARE. NO LUCK, THEN.

TG: yeah nothing

TG: found some dandelions and shit

TG: but they turned up more negative than madonnas pregnancy test

CG: STRIDER THAT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE.

CG: ISN’T THE WHOLE POINT THAT YOUR MAGICAL HUMAN MOTHER GRUB GOT PREGNANT?

TG: well

TG: thats

TG: dont question the brilliance kitkat

CG: WHATEVER.

CG: TOO BAD, I THOUGHT WE WERE ON THE RIGHT TRACK THERE.

You frown, rolling a dandelion between your fingers and thumb. The thing about dandelion cocktails is that no one really knows to order them. Not until someone else suggests it. And the fact that both senators happened to order this rather unusual drink and happened to die from the same poison? _This has to be more than a coincidence_ , you think darkly. And yet you are pathetically stumped –

– oh. Well, wait. There’s a second shoebox. And – that’s really weird – it’s on the _lower_ shelf. You all don’t really keep anything there, probably because it’s distinctly out of view and that’s kinda shady as fuck. Not the way you run shit up in this joint, anyway.

TG: might of spoken too soon kitkat

You inspect the contents of this new box, and find another set of dandelions. Well, nothing particularly interesting in here, unless you’ve got a kink for botany, you guess. Except, hmm, you take that back. There’s a handful off to one side that looks shiftier than the button below the caps lock.

You hold one up to the light to peruse its sweet curvatures more closely, and indeed, while the flower is no different from the others, the couple of leaves still attached at the top are...heart-shaped. Not like they were cut that way or anything, that’d make it even creepier, but these are definitely not your middle-of-the-unmowed-lawn autotrophic hitchhikers.

You wash out the blender and throw in a couple of these new anomalies, chop that shit to a pulp, and start round two in another shot glass. You pour more of the test fluid in, stick a strip in it, and wait.

It turns blue.

“Blue means there’s drexa-whatever, right?” you shout with a twinge of excitement.

“ _Drexalophine_ ,” the voice from the other room snaps.

“Yeah, so blue means it’s there, right?”  
“Yeah. That’s what it means.” Pause. “You didn’t get that, did you?”

“Get what?”

“You didn’t test positive for drexalophine, did you?”

“I mean, _I_ didn’t. I’d probs be, y’know, dead and shit.”

The officer groans. “ _You did not detect any goddamn drexalophine in this bar_ , did you?”

You consider your answer for a split second. On the one hand, you don’t really want to be charged with obstruction of justice for trying to do other people’s jobs for them, and regardless of your feelings towards Sargeant Salamibritches here, you don’t think he’s necessarily bad at his job.

On the other hand, you are the assistant manager of this joint, you were bartending both nights, and, come to think of it, you have zilch evidence to suggest that you did not poison both senators.

“Nope,” you reply, earning a loud sigh from the officer. You pocket one of the not-dandelions and pop the box back on the lower shelf. You’d almost feel guilty, but this isn’t really for self-preservation.

TG: definitely spoke too soon kitkat

CG: WHAT’D YOU FIND?

TG: karkat

TG: get ready

CG: OH GOD, MY IDIOT-SENSES ARE TINGLING. YOU’RE GOING TO SAY SOMETHING MINDFUCKINGLY STUPID. I CAN FEEL IT.

TG: to say yes

TG: to the drex

CG: GODDAMMIT.

TG: yeah so it was in a flower

CG: BUT NOT IN THE DANDELIONS.

TG: no

TG: well

TG: kind of

CG: STRIDER, I APPRECIATE YOUR CLARITY, BUT REALLY, EASY WITH THE DETAILS. I’M NOT A GRUBFUCKING THINKPANSURGEON.

TG: like if you said dandelions are like chanel purses

TG: id say

TG: check the walmart neon pleather satchels in aisle five

CG: SO IT WAS IN THE GARNISH.

TG: yep

TG: meaning our suspect list is down to four

CG: WAIT. HOW THE FUCK DO YOU FIGURE THAT.

TG: well only six people work behind the bar

TG: so only six people could of had access

TG: rose wasnt working there either night

TG: and im gonna make a pretty risky guess here and say it wasnt me

TG: so that leaves aradia

TG: eridan

TG: feferi

TG: and equius

TG: spongehorse sweatpants doesnt really leave the kitchen so i doubt it was him

TG: but hey who knows

CG: HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU NOT FLIPPING SHITS LIKE ARTIFICIAL MOOBEAST PATTIES RIGHT NOW.

CG: YOU LITERALLY JUST TOLD ME THAT ONE OF YOUR COWORKERS OF HOWEVER MANY SWEEPS IS A SERIAL KILLER.

TG: four years

TG: i think thats like two troll years

CG: FUCK.

TG: i mean thats just the truth

TG: sucks i guess

CG: WHY THE FUCK WOULD ONE OF YOUR COWORKERS OF TWO SWEEPS DECIDE TO BECOME A SERIAL KILLER, DAVE.

TG: dont ask me

TG: im not the one holdin an electric screwdriver in full psychotic clown getup

TG: dont know what youre talkin about karkat

TG: im not the one who stapled you to the wall with a pic of your wife and kids

TG: lets play a game karkat

CG: OH MY GOD. SHUT YOUR IGNORANCE SHAFT.

TG: yessir

CG: ANYWAY, GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE.

TG: what

CG: I WANT TO SEE THIS SO-CALLED DANDELION IMITATION.

TG: why

CG: STRIDER, I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT I AM THE LOCAL EXPERT ON ALL THINGS PERTAINING TO FLORAL REPRODUCTIVE MECHANISMS.

TG: wait

TG: are you telling me

TG: omg

CG: WHAT.

TG: you worked for three years

TG: in a fuckin flower shop

CG: GOT A GODDAMN PROBLEM WITH IT, STRIDER?

TG: what no

TG: i just cant imagine

TG: you

TG: arranging fuckin pansies for old ladies on a daily basis

TG: arent flower shops supposed to be like peaceful and shit

CG: GUESS AGAIN, FUCKASS! THE TOP TEN MOST TERRIFYING MOMENTS OF MY LIFE HAPPENED IN THAT BILGESPEWING CORNER SHOP OF HORRORS.

TG: ok so flower shop turned up to eleven

TG: got it

CG: YEAH, SO GET OVER HERE IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES OR SO HELP ME.

\--carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead  [TG] \--

 

TG: wait dude

TG: where is here

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whewwww!! I have literally so much more admiration for people who write extensive chatlogs because tagging that was friggin exhausting ^u^; anddddd I think that's the longest chapter to date!! Glad to have the plot kind of rolling on its own at this point. Next update should be pretty soon, I think I'll have a lot of time to work on this in the coming week. As always, kudos and comments are appreciated to the greatest degree, and thanks for reading!! :D :D :D


	6. There Is An Answer In A Question

** ===> Have a sleepover. **

Nah, you’re not about that life. You’d be breaking your lifetime record for not catchin’ zzz’s in other people’s houses. Constant vigilance and shit.

**=== > Really? You’ve never had a sleepover?**

The nah means nah, son.

**=== > That’s a little sad.**

You’d be hella appreciative if the topic could be masterfully dropped like a D. Stri record.

**=== > Enjoy a cup of afternoon tea with your wafer-titled companion.**

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are all about that motherfuckin’ tea life.

As soon as the thought occurred to you, you had that antique porcelain kettle set in the backseat faster than Dante could chug a cup. You only actually bother with your cuppa’ maybe once every couple of months, but you like being able to say, “Why yes, Martha, we _did_ in fact consider your offer. Forgive the stains; Jacquelyn and I discussed your proposition over tea time.”

You approach Karkat’s – well, Sollux’s – doorstep and give it the classy triple knock. You hear distinctive stomping, and within a few moments the door swings open without warning. Thank Bro for those reflexes or else you’d be bringing a new meaning to “door-in-the-face.”

“‘Sup.”

Karkat takes one look at you and your charming set of teaware, and shuts the door again.

“Kitkat –”

“– no, I don’t want to hear it, Strider, just – just put that back where you found it.”

**=== > Put it back.**

It’s okay, because you find out Karkat’s an avid coffee drinker.

He drinks it black, which you might consider doing if you were wearing a full on suit and tie. For ironic purposes, obviously. You actually think the entire act of drinking coffee is ironic, because deep down no one actually likes that shit. People need a medium for caffeine and sugar in the morning so they don’t realize that’s all they’re juicin’ up with anyway. You’ve always equated “I’ll take it black” with “Help, I’m a try-hard,” but with Karkat, you’re not sure if it’s troll tastebuds or if he’s using the bitterness to, like, repent for his self-inflicted guilt for existing. Or something.

Karkat’s handling one of those not-dandelions that you smuggled from the crime scene. No one asked, so it’s probs fine that you took it anyway. (Right?)

“Know what it is?” you ask.

“Yeah.” Karkat pauses his careful inspection, though he never looks up from the weed. “Coltsfoot. Pretty common to come across, so I doubt we can trace it back to anywhere in particular.”

“So basically this is worthless. As far as finding the killer goes.”

Karkat looks at you like you’re an idiot, although that could be his default expression for all you know. “No, it makes a big fucking difference, Strider.”

“One weed over another?” you ask skeptically.

He sighs. “Clearly, _your_ excuse for a higher education failed to even _mention_ anything remotely botanical.”

“Sorry, math major,” you shrug.

“What?” Karkat eyes you skeptically.

“Yeah, abstract algebra’s tight shit.”

“You know what? Never mind. Let me introduce you to some real ‘tight shit,’ Strider. Welcome to the art of floriography.”

You frown. “Flower writing.”

“Throughout the ages,” Karkat ignores you, “humans have sought a medium of expression both cryptic and elegant. Now, I rarely find any part of your pathetic culture to be tolerable at best, but you humans got something right for once. Floriography, the language of flowers, was developed for use, especially but not exclusively in the delicate art of flushed courtship, to convey a detailed message through endearing gifts of exquisite bouquets.”

“Dude.” You gag. “Stop. You’re gonna make me puke rainbows.”

“Dave, ninety percent of Alternian flowering lifeforms are flesh-dissolving, explosive, or smell like festering corpse with a side of fecal matter. Just let me have this one.”

That sounds equal parts badass and miserable, in your opinion. Anyway, you actually think the idea of floriography sounds pretty cool, minus all the supersaccharine bullshit.

“Alright. So’re you gonna go Dan Brown on me and tell me you cracked the motherfuckin’ Da Vinci code?” you ask.

“Strider, I spent three years playing carrier pigeon for every shit-for-brains celebrity jerkfuck to enter New Austin and be shat out the other end. If I can’t ‘crack the motherfucking code,’ I’m a fucking moron.”

“Wait, I thought your job was just, like, arranging flowers and shit,” you study him curiously. “You’re tellin’ me you were basically running an underground mail service?”

“Not exactly.” Karkat pauses. “Actually, yeah, pretty fucking much. I wasn’t _running_ it,” he adds quickly.

“Who’s the boss?”

“I can’t tell you that,” he replies crisply.

“C’mon, Kitkat, it’s not like you’re working there anymore.”

“Strider, you can’t _imagine_ the shit I heard behind that desk. I’m talking about _everything_ in your human stalkpackets, _months_ before it got published.” Karkat is smirking with satisfaction.

“Stalkpackets?”

“Urr, whatever your extraneous human term is. Tabs. Tabids. I don’t know.”

“...tabloids. The word you are looking for is tabloids,” you inform him.

“Sure. Whatever. Tabloids. Anyway, no, I can’t tell you who runs the prestigious Language of Flowers without putting my meal tunnel on the line.”

You’re pretty sure Karkat is more interested in grocery store magazines than he’s pretending to be, but you let it slide. “K. So can you read the dandelion leaves or whatever?”

“It’s simple, Dave. Dandelions typically mean faithfulness or happiness, not the typical message you’d slap onto a murder. However,” he continues, “this isn’t a dandelion. Coltsfoot has a very different message.”

Karkat suddenly snips off the end of the flower between his two claws (you never noticed how sharp those were) and taps the stem on the coffee table. A fine white powder scatters on the glass top.

“It means, ‘Justice will be done to you.’”

You feel the twinge of chills on your arms. “So these are revenge kills.”

“Sounds like it to me,” Karkat agrees.

“But do we know killer-dude knows what some weed means in Victorian flower language?” you ask skeptically.

“You said there were normal dandelions too, right?” Karkat points out. “I would have doubted it, too, but think about it. Who would go to the trouble of harvesting two different breeds of weeds and only stuffing one kind with poison? Or ordering them or whatever.”

Slowly, you nod. “That’d be a good band name.”

“...Strider, what.”

“Breeds of Weeds. Pretty catchy. I’d listen to that shit.”

Karkat shakes his head. “Strider, you are a miracle. It is the most incomprehensible of miracles, that somehow, through the sprawling expanse of spacetime, trillions of atoms came together and united, bonded together by mutual pointlessness, to create a physical manifestation of the ultimate shitpost.”

“I know. It’s nothin’ but miracles beyond your door,” you agree, quoting the sagest wisdom that ever graced your ears.

Karkat abruptly gets up and leaves. You wonder if you said something wrong or if he’s just taking a piss or something. Or if he’s just making a dramatic exit to express his roof-shattering levels of “doneness.” Yeah, you bet that’s what it is. All those Whole Foods steaks are blushing like they never hit the grill, they’re so outdone in levels of doneness. Forget dragons, those cow’s asses are about to bust their asses straight to the nearest retirement community. (...are those asses squared? Asses^2?)

Karkat comes back in a few minutes later with a fresh cup of coffee. He stops in the doorway, blinks slowly, and shakes his head.  
“Sorry, I was going to ask if you wanted anything,” he mumbles.

“Nah, Strider’s fine. Finer than fine. Parking ticket levels of fine.” You wait for him to sit back down. “You find anything on the www yet?”

“Nope,” Karkat sighs. “Plenty of Crocker haters, plenty of Hope haters. So far, no crossover on the Venn diagram of general loathing.”

“Tough luck.” You think for a second. “Who d’you think did it?”

“Who do I think’s the murderer?” Karkat raises his eyebrows. “Tough call. I don’t know your coworkers. Pretty sure Sollux does,” he adds, frowning. “Why, do you have someone in mind?”

“We probably should,” you shrug. “Not much of a way to narrow it down, though. Aradia’s cool but she’s got this weird thing with death,” (you don’t mention your own interest in checking out dead things), “Feferi’s pretty chill but I don’t know her that well, Equius is kinda weird, like, even to me, and Eridan…”

“Eridan?” Karkat prods.

“Eridan’s not exactly...Eridan’s maybe a little psycho.”

“What do you mean?” Karkat stares at you steadily.

“He kinda never stops talking about the fate of Alternia and exterminating the lowbloods,” you detail uncomfortably. “It’s probably good that Eridan wasn’t there for your meet-n-greet with the bar floor.”

“Well,” Karkat inhales sharply, “he sounds like the type.”

“True. Then again, these weren’t trolls that got killed,” you point out. “I dunno what his deal with humans is, but that’s never been his main beef or anything.”

“Hrr. I’ll keep looking,” Karkat promises, studying the table darkly.

You figure your meet-up’s about over, so you get up to leave.

“You’re leaving?” Karkat looks up at you, and you’re surprised that he actually looks kinda...disappointed. You can’t ditch that face.

“Nah, just wipin’ up the deadly death powder you dumped on your roomie’s table,” you cover smoothly. Smooth like the queen’s fuckin’ royal silk brassiere, blessèd be it. “I ain’t gonna pretend to know the bounds of your hate-love and shit, but, like, maybe you’re not at the place where you leave around covert assassination attempts?”

“Oh,” Karkat chirps, looking startled at himself.

“Yeah.” You awkwardly abandon ship and make for the kitchen. It takes you a few minutes to find the Windex, and you realize in retrospect it might have been just a little stupid for you to sign up for clean-up duty when you don’t know where shit is, but whatever. When you _do_ find it, you go back in and wipe up the drex, careful not to snort any by accident or anything.

“So, urr…” Karkat’s weird overbite of a mouth twists awkwardly. “Do you want to…”

**=== > Watch a movie.**

This is awful.

“This is awful,” Karkat growls about 20 minutes into your straight-to-DVD romcom, _The Wedding Pact_ or some shit. “Dave, how can you stomach this insult to even the crudest forms of romance. The fact that this even exists offends my very being.”

“Don’t look at me, you picked it,” you reply.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he demands.

“Dunno. Thought that’s how all romcoms are.”

You witness Karkat’s blood in a new form as he explodes in a crimson-flushed rant with levels of unchill you never thought were humanly possible, although since you’re rollin’ with a troll (trollin’?) you aren’t surprised so much as impressed, in some ironic sense.

“STRIDER, YOU IGNORANT FUCKCRUMPET –”

**=== > Try again.**

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and your anguish bladders have betrayed you.

You should have known better than to agree to some obscure android-human romance picture, especially with these human titles that don’t tell you anything about the film in question. _Her_? How the fuck were you supposed to draw any conclusions about the emotional nature of this last minute movie choice when the producers decided to give it a singular bleak pronoun for a title? Of course these naming schemes are typical with human cinematic works, especially since the art of human filmography is but a squeaking wriggler in comparison to the immense archives of Alternian motion pictures.

“Yep, here we go,” Strider mutters to himself before tossing another piece of popcorn at your head. His feet are propped up on the (luckily empty) seat in front of him, and he’s been chucking food at you for the entire experience. You got some nasty looks when you were furiously whispering for him to knock it off, so you resigned yourself to this fate.

“ _It’s like I’m reading a book...and it’s a book I deeply love_ ,” Samantha explains.

_Nononono, you can’t just leave_ , you think desperately, _you love him and he loves you..._

“ _But I’m reading it slowly now. So the words are really far apart and the spaces between the words are almost infinite…_ ”

“Just let her go, dude,” Dave shakes his head, tossing popcorn up that he catches effortlessly in his mouth.

“Shut up!” you hiss, as dismay fluid threatens to spill out of your eyes.

“She’s too good for him,” Strider comments.

“She makes him his best self!” you exclaim a little too loudly, as someone behind you shushes you with an angry hiss of air.

“Yeah, but why’s that her job?” Dave replies with an almost inaudible whisper. “Entire point’s that she’s her own, like, consciousness, right?”

“ _And as much as I want to_ ,” Samantha murmurs, “ _I can’t live in your book anymore_.”

Well, that does it. You catch the lump in your throat before it can manifest itself anywhere in the audible sphere of being, but you feel the pink transparent dribbles of tears spill out of your eyes and down your face.

“He really loves her, he’ll let her go,” Dave shrugs, and you can’t help the faint whine that you choke on as it slips out between your gritted teeth, because you know it’s right.

Dave glances at you, and his expression instantly shifts to what seems like surprise, although you can never tell with his moronic shades. “Are you –”

“– shut _up_ ,” you hiss, because like fuck are you missing the best part of this wretched goddamn emotional marathon.

“ _I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved you_ ,” Theodore murmurs onscreen.

“ _Me too. Now we know how_.”

You fucking lose it.

**=== > Get it together, you blubbering goddamn pansy.**

You _do_ get it together, about halfway through the credits, because like hell did that sunrise scene help with your minor emotional crisis, but by the time you’re out in the hallway you’ve got your face mopped up and you don’t feel like your eyes are even particularly color-rimmed. Maybe you’re out of the woods.

“Y’know, I knew you were, like, emotional, but I never ever pinned you as _mushy_ ,” Strider regards you with a slight smile as soon as he hits the passenger seat of your old sedan.

“Shut your chagrin tunnel,” you growl halfheartedly as you back out of your parking space, because, for the second time today, he’s completely right.

“I mean, it was a good movie to go all Old Faithful over –”

“– shut –”

“– like I heard that sound and I was like –”

“– up –”

“‘There a cat in here?’ But –”

“– _Strider!”_ you screech, tapping the brake threateningly to get his attention, popping to several quick successive stops as you approach the stoplight. Strider is jerked forward with every stop, and you feel vindictively successful.

“Chill,” Strider says, and you can feel the eyeroll even if you can’t see it, and then he unexpectedly grins, widely and a little wickedly. “It was cute.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” you growl lowly. “Say that when my hands aren’t on the fucking wheel, Strider. I guarantee they’ll be on something else.”

“Like this hot bod?” Strider raises his brows at you alluringly.

“Yeah, strangling it,” you snort, jabbing him with a middle finger, at the same time keeping your eyes glued on the road so you don’t miss your turn.

“Wait, hold on. This isn’t part of your weird hate-love thing, right?”

You barely make your turn. “What,” you glare at him, already not liking where this is going.

“Like, you do the whole trying-to-annoy-the-fuck-out-of-each-other, and then you do the weird rough-housing shit,” Strider rambles, “so is, like, asphyxiation part of that or something?”

“Strider, any strangulation, mauling, or general bodily harm from me to you is 100% platonic,” you assure him shortly.

“Right, ‘cause you’re goin’ after your roommate anyway.”

“Wh- what? _No!”_ you sputter, despite feeling yourself flush bright red. On your face. The only flushed thing in this car is your face.

“Really,” Strider smirks, and you know you’re caught but damned if you’re going down without a struggle.

A struggle you don’t get to have, because Strider suddenly reaches across the front and hijacks the steering wheel, swerving to the other lane and steering you straight towards the lawn.

“WHAT THE _FUCK_ ,” you scream, elbowing him off you and regaining control, slamming the brakes and pulling into an awkward park on the side of the road.

“Almost missed it,” Strider explains, motioning with his thumb to The Green Sun, just a little behind where you’re stopped.

“...no. _No_. You do _not_ fuck with the driver, under _any_ fucking circumstances,” you breathe heavily.

“Relax, it’s an empty street,” Strider assures you. “‘sides, I’ve been driving twice as long as you have.”

“And I’m the guy with the foot on the gas,” you hiss, hearing your unsettling pulse pounding in your ears. “What if you fucking got us _killed?”_

Dave’s expression shifts as his smile dulls and slips away, and you almost regret saying anything. “...yeah, you’re right,” he mumbles, and you can tell by the angle of his head that he’s not looking at you. “Sorry.”

“...still, that was pretty...thrilling,” you admit, and as soon as you feel him look back at you, you find yourself looking anywhere but him. “The whole thing. Was, urr, pretty awesome. We should...maybe do it again sometime?”

****  
  


**=== > Contemplate.**

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re not quite sure what to make of that.

So you naturally seal the deal with a fistbump.

**=== > Seek the motive.**

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you hate the internet.

No, that’s not true. You love the internet. You adore the internet. But you have eternal loathing for the primitive crotchstained shitnoggins that somehow, through astounding means, have populated the once-bright future with their thinkpanless clusterfuckery. Or maybe it takes a certain kind of brilliance to observe that fuck the death penalty, wve’re all here to just havwe sex and die anywvay.

This entire thread, in fact, is on the National Death Penalty Bill that just passed through the senate. You thought you were onto something when you started seeing a lot of Crocker support banners slapped onto half-assed signatures, every poster in support of Hope’s proposed national ban of the sentence. And indeed, it seemed that a reasonable amount of opposition was still very much invested in the failure of the bill, an opposition that might resort to violence if necessary for the PRESERVATION OF THE VALuES THIS NATION WAS BuILT uPON. YOu DISGuSTING PANSIES.

But now that you’re actually looking for evidence of Crocker’s stance, you’re inclined to consider this correlation either a coincidence or baseless hivemind on the posters’ parts. She’s offered no statements in support of the bill, and from the looks of it she even abstained from voting. At the very least, Crocker’s given no opinion that could provoke even the most extreme opponents to do something as drastic as _murder._

You decide this trail is dead. Just like all the others.

**=== > Try again.**

But you were so far along! Your grip tightens, and your claws dig into the soft skin of your palm before you remember and quickly force your prongs to loosen up.

_What was it?_ you scowl, glaring at the page on your – Sollux’s – monitor. _What made this one different? What was I actually doing_ right?

You glance over the usernames and the signatures absentmindedly, looking for some kind of connection. But how the junglehumping fuck are you supposed to figure out what clydesdaleTechnician has in common with augustGlossary, aside from the fact that you’re happy to continue your merry way without becoming acquainted with either of them?

You’re just about to x-out and start from scratch when a little subtitle catches your eye below one of their posts.

_Translated from Alternian._

Huh. That’s weird. You normally don’t see that unless –

_This is a troll-based discussion forum_ , you realize, suddenly noticing the Alternian scattered in signatures, the almost nonsensical English navigation sidebar – it all makes sense now. And indeed, when you check out user profiles, there are only a handful of humans you stumble across in any given thread. You have no idea how you missed something so obvious other than by not looking for it.

It occurs to you that perhaps you should have started here from the beginning. All of your primary suspects are trolls, and troll opinions are absent from most news articles. In fact, you realize, all of your resources so far have said jack shit about trolls. You berate past!Karkat for being a fucking moron and scroll through the collection of threads ravenously.

The first time you see Senator Hope mentioned in a subject line, you’re skeptical about finding anything. When seven of the next ten threads have “Hope” and “traitor” in the heading, you can’t help but get your “hopes” up. Ha, ha.

KP: It’s əvən worsə bəcausə shə masquəradəd as somə savior for us trolls’ and thən as soon as shə gəts our votəs’ shə pulls this bullshit°°°

HS: ! l!terally can’t bel!eve ?he’? do!ng th!? to u?

You wonder what “this” is, exactly, so you scroll down a little further.

CG: First 9f all, I think it w9uld 6e prudent 9f me t9 remind y9u all t9 tag y9ur statements with any p9ssi6le triggers t9 av9id any p9tential em9ti9nal trauma 9r unpleasant rec9llecti9ns f9r any future readers 9f this thread, alth9ugh it is imp9ssi6le t9 predict f9r what may 6ec9me triggering t9 future generati9ns 9f Alternians and 9ther species, regardless 9f h9w relatively insignificant the pr96lematic latter may 6e. N9w, with that pream6le 9ut 9f the way, I t99 am sh9cked and disapp9inted with Senat9r H9pe’s recent 6ehavi9r, particularly her surprising vet9 9f this Interspecies Rights Act. That such an adamant activist f9r equality 6etween species w9uld refuse t9 pass this 6ill 9nly further c9nvinces me that the cultural mixing 9f multiple species can have 9nly a t9xic 9utc9me. #tw: p9litics #tw: humans #tw: interspecies interacti9ns #tw: earth

Well, “first 9f all,” you are overcome with irritation towards the fucksquatting pretentious load gaper of shit embodied within this wall of text. It almost reminds you of the one time you met your dancestor back on Alternia. (You ditched that dunderfuck within five minutes of meeting him.) But at least you know what all the controversy is about. You’re surprised you haven’t even heard of the bill before now, but with your job catastrophe and your general workload for college (DNArchitecture is a very demanding field) you suppose you have skipped out on most news, even news affecting your entire species.

Not to mention that, as a mutant, you’ve never had much of a nub in politics anyway.

You search “Crocker Interspecies Rights Act,” not expecting much, but boom, there it is. “Crocker rejects IRA,” “Senator Crocker No Friend to Trolls,” “The Batterbitch Strikes Again.” And, rare as troll reporters are in human news companies, many an article has a readily available Alternian translation. This bill, it seems, could be the link you’ve been looking for.

– carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 23:43 –

CG: DAVE HUMAN, I NEED YOU TO SCHEDULE A MEETING WITH THE CHIEF OF POLICE FOR TOMORROW.

CG: I FOUND SOMETHING.

**=== > Oh dear. This will not do at all.**

**  
** You are now the impartial narrator, and you are finding it very difficult to stay impartial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya humans, SO glad to finally have this chapter up!! I've been sitting on bits and pieces of it for far too long!! As far as the rest of the fic goes, I'm going to (probably unrealistically) attempt to update about once a week for the rest of the summer, so that'll hopefully let me update at least 3 more times. I'm not sure whether or not this will be wrapped up by then, but at the moment I'm doubting it – I reckon it'll come down to how long each of the future chapters ends up being! Anyhow, rest assured that this WILL be finished, I will not let it sit and stagnate because that always makes me sad and this is far too fun anyhow B) However, wherever I am in September is probably where a hiatus will have to start, as I will be bombarding a completely new setting and trying to find my footing in the realm of higher education!  
> Anyhoo, as always, kudos and comments are infinitely appreciated and always make my day 1000% brighter, so feel free to leave em if you're so inclined or if you have a plotpoint or question or anything else you want to discuss! Thanks for reading!! :3 :3 :3


	7. Of All The Plans That Came Undone

“So. Let me make sure I have this straight.” The pale, young yet frail-looking Chief of New Austin Police laces his fingers together and rests his elbows on his desk, staring intently at the two of you. Mostly you.

“You entered a crime scene while it was under investigation without any clearance.”

“Yup.”

“You handled evidence without notifying the personnel on site.”

“Mhmm.”

“You then performed rogue tests on this evidence, found results that could have given the actual police a lead, and withheld the information, even when questioned?”

“Right.”

The chief regards you with exasperation. “You do realize we could file this as an obstruction of justice and possibly sentence you both to jail time?”

Through your shades, you hold eye contact with the police chief for a breath. You raise your eyebrows, a subtle dare.

The chief finally gives an exhausted huff. “Frankly, I’m not sure whether you’re both geniuses or morons.”

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re goddamn sure you’re both where it counts.

The chief pauses after his statement like he’s said something new that you should sit on for the next year. “That being said, this is the best lead we have, farfetched as it might seem. Better late than never. Not to mention how full the prisons are,” he adds, fully serious.

“Sir,” Karkat begins timidly, “you said this is the best lead you have…?”

“Yes,” the chief replies, a bit clipped. “The police have been a tad overwhelmed in their attempts to abate the escalating violence between trolls and humans. As you’ve mentioned, the IRA’s failure in the Senate caused quite the uproar within the troll communities,” he remarks with a frown that could be anywhere from disgusted to concerned for all you know, “and as a result, a great deal of aggression normally contained within the troll communities has become an issue for human society as well.”

“So has no one been paying attention to troll-on-troll crime?” you fix your expression, showing only hints of anything that could be called accusatory.

The chief stares you back levelly. “That is not my division. Boys, you’re dismissed. Keep us updated with everything you find out from this point going forward.”

“Yes, sir,” Karkat agrees hastily.  
“Sure thing,” you nod. You have 0 intentions of telling the police department a goddamn thing until you have to.

“Enjoy your afternoon.”

The two of you exit the office, and as soon as you’re through the heavy brass doors in the front and back out in the open air, you can almost feel Karkat’s massive exhale. You wonder what he was expecting. Actually, you wonder what the troll police are like, if they even exist.

“So,” Karkat grunts after a moment of relieved silence.

“What the fuck even was that,” you ponder, more in disbelief than indignance.

“What,” Karkat glances at you sharply.

“I mean, weren’t you expecting him to, like, do something? Like maybe his fuckin’ job?” you half-laugh, ‘cause you’re feeling the gravity of the situation better than Sandra fuckin’ Bullock.

“What, Strider, were you hoping to make lifelong bonds forged in the fires of your human Mount fucking Vesuvius with your cellmates?” Karkat asks impatiently.

“Shit, man, we were gonna land the Guinness World Record for droppin’ the hottest beats ever boxed on a clogged up prison john.”

Karkat doesn’t reply. “What?” you prod.

“John hasn’t been to prison,” he frowns uncertainly.

“What? No. The john’s another name for the shitter,” you explain. “The toilet. The outthouse. The loo. The dogbowl –”

“Okay, I get it,” Karkat waves you off irritably. “To answer your question, you clearly have never even spoken to a sherifflagellator.”

“Bless you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Do I even wanna know what a sherifflagellum is?” you sigh.

“A sheriffla _gellator_ ,” Karkat begins in a huff, “is like your human police people. Their jobs are similar to legislacerators, except they patrol for street crime instead of hunting down felons, and they normally don’t deal in execution.”

“The more you know.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Karkat continues with a rattle behind his words, “our law enforcers are notorious for being pointless sacks of shit when it comes to ‘caste-justified’ crime. Some highblood could stick his prong down my nutrition chute and tear me inside-fucking-out and they wouldn’t lift a finger.”

“Wow,” you stare.

“Yeah. They’re not all bad,” he shrugs. “For instance, if I got caught robbing a highblood’s store or something, they’d probably let the sherifflagellator deal with me instead of killing me on the spot. And if a rustblood beat me up, they might – well, probably not. I’m a bad example,” he narrows his eyes bitterly. “But you get what I’m saying.”

“I get that your justice system is completely fucked up?” you say, scratching the side of your head awkwardly.

Karkat laughs, sharp and raspy. “Tell me about it.”

You can’t help but grin at that.

“So, urr…” Karkat shifts a little, and you feel a tangible awkwardness bless this sweet, beautiful swappin’ of words between the two of you. “What’re you doing?”

“Uhh.” You take your hand away from your head awkwardly. “Whad’you mean?”

“Like, now. After this,” he clarifies.

“Well,” you think, with Kelvin-scale zero things planned for the rest of your day, “I’ll probs make like a sadistic agriculturist and hit the hay. Haven’t really slept in the last 36 hours,” you realize aloud.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s probably a good idea,” Karkat agrees. He seems a little uncomfortable, you note, but you don’t really know how to ask him about it and you think he’d tell you to fuck off if you did.

“Yeah. So we start lookin’ into my coworkers’ private lives tonight?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Cool,” you agree, offering him a fistbump placidly. “See ya.”

**=== > Be the frustrated one.**

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you wish that your shameglobes were a little bigger and that life would stop taking a lukewarm piss on you.

You had been looking forward to getting out of that meeting – not only to get away from the mildly threatening human police douchetissue, but also to make your move on Dave fucking Strider.

**=== > Wait, what?**

You think you were clear the first time.

**=== > But –**

No. You are _not_ having a fucking life crisis over the trivial, predictable fact that you, Karkat Vantas, happen to find some disgusting shitnoggin of a human mildly attractive. You are the guru of all things remotely romantic. You saw this coming from lightyears away. You simply want to take the next logical step and see if the Strider asshole reciprocates.

**=== > Bullshit.**

Yeah, it might have snuck up on you a little bit.

Regardless of the pocket husk you may or may not have fumbled and the screen you may or may not have cracked with the fucking Trollian thread still open, you think you’ve dealt with your repugnant, unnatural attraction like a champ, especially because your mobile device was, in fact, the _only_ victim of the moment, and that’s a goddamn trophy worthy accomplishment in your book.

But it’s long past time to ditch this unnecessary thread of blithering retrospective shame.

You were intending to ask Dave what he was doing after your meeting, and when he would inevitably answer with “Nothing,” since he is a lethargic piece of shit who doesn’t have to work until at least 5 or 6, you would invite him to go do something with you, like go see a movie, or...urr. Well. Something. You figured the movies were a safe bet. You didn’t really have a plan for if he said “No thanks, you shithead” or something of the like.

You did not, however, plan for Strider to ditch the unspoken plan. “Sadistic agriculturist” your ass. You have no idea if Strider is actually boring enough to plan for a reasonable sleep cycle, or if he was letting you down easy. Alternatively, you suppose Dave could have spouted off the first thing that popped into his head, and you would not be surprised if that was the case.

Nevertheless, your move remains unmade, the situation remains unchanged, and your shits remain unflipped.

**=== > Keep a close eye on those shits.**

There is no cause for concern. You are the king of the shit griddle. No shits will ever burn on your watch.

It’s time to go home.

**=== > Your shits are browning rather nicely.**

When you park outside Sollux’s house, you notice an unfamiliar sports car next to the curb that reeks of some dickprince’s inferiority complex. You briefly consider leaving an angry note on the windshield, but then it occurs to you that, despite everything you know about him, Sollux might actually have friends.

You proceed indoors.

**=== > Is there normally that much smoke?**

You think you hear growls and whispers coming from the den. Yeah, sounds pretty heated in there. Sollux must be arguing with someone. You should probably give them a minute.

You check out the fridge. There’s never much in here. There’s a plastic container of tuna salad from your $3 lunch yesterday, a carton of Half-&-Half, a couple bananas (why does Sollux keep his grubfucking bananas in the grubfucking refrigerator?) and a recycled orange juice carton full of this morning’s coffee sitting on the counter. You grab the coffee and pour yourself a cup, and you don’t even care enough to ice it or heat it up. Lukewarm’s the best thirst quencher, after all.

You hear a crash in the other room. Holy fuck, you better make sure they’re not trying to kill each other or something.

**=== > Your shits are burning.**

You swing open the door and –

**=== > Flip your shits.**

“WHAT THE EVERLOVING, SHITSPRAYING, BULGEWHIPPING, SEEDFLAPKISSING FUCK,” you shout at the mass of naked grey bodies spewing bodily fluids all over the goddamn couch – YOUR couch, the place you put your head every night, so help you God – one of which is almost certainly the double-horned mutant dicklick that BESTOWED that couch unto you himself –

“Hey, KK,”

– and there is the shiteater himself, every explicit detail of him, blackpailing the shit out of some highblood fisheating asshole, bluh that’s disgusting you can SMELL THE PHEROMONES –

“Who the fuck’s this, Sol,” the stranger growls, and that just sends you off the fucking rail.  
“THIS IS THE ASSHOLE WHO SLEEPS ON YOUR FUCKING HATEFLUID SPONGE,” you explain, grabbing the twice-read romance novel on the table next to you and _aiming for the fucking horns._

“Calm the fuck down,” Sollux snorts, and you direct your anger at _this_ fucker who _completely knew what he was doing_ and –

– and fuck.

That asshole is Eridan fucking Ampora.

**=== > Take the shits off the griddle.**

You are far too infuriated to do anything involving shits and griddles. You have had enough shits dumped on you from one day. Life must have taken a fucking laxative.

“You know what,” you growl, “do what you want. Pail a murderer. Make a fucking rainbow on the couch. It’s _your_ goddamn couch, after all,” you raise your voice to a snarl as you throw all your shit into the bag you brought with you, “and I don’t give a damn.”

“Is he always this annoying?” Eridan asks, wavering on the “w” in the most aggravating way that makes you want to kindly reshape his jaw.

“He probably juth wanth in. Right, KK?” Sollux smirks at you.

“FUCK YOU,” you yell, storming out the back door.

**=== > Where are you going?**

You don’t know.

“Tho you’re a murderer now?” you hear through the screen window.

“Yep. Guilty a’ murderin’ your filthy ass.” An onslaught of thrashing drowns out every other sound around you.

You don’t know, but you sure as hell aren’t staying here.

**=== > Do what you know.**

Your name is Dave Strider, and it’s a slow night.

All your regulars are here, of course. The Mayor stopped by, as per usual – no one actually remembers his name, and he’s not even the actual mayor, just some random district representative – but there’s some Pavlovian fucking magic in New Austin that has everyone votin’ yes for that dark, vimful, trust-inspiring face. Dadbert came by and had a whiskey, too, after visiting with his son next door.

But that’s been pretty much it. It ain’t even midnight yet. You’re worried that the news has made this joint untouchable on MC fuckin’ Hammer levels, especially with the tourists. And the tourists were the best part of working here! Ain’t nothin’ like watching toddler moms at bachelorette parties signing on with the Witch of the fuckin’ Wasted.

What will you do?

**=== > How should you know? You don’t even know where you are.**

Yes, you do.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are standing outside The Green Sun.

Your feet must have taken you here. You certainly weren’t paying attention to where you were going. For a moment, you think it might be fate that you came here. Then you realize it was probably force of habit.

You feel even more like a failure.

You start pacing slowly, sharking your way up and down the sidewalk, not wanting to go in The Green Sun again. You can’t decide whether Dave would be happy to see you or disappointed that you came to solve another problem. Your workplace is closed, so you can’t loaf around in there, either.

With no good options, you decide to face the music.

**=== > Call Terezi.**

You dial Terezi’s number, not exactly sure what you are going to say. You’re not even sure who’s supposed to be sorry at this point. Probably both of you.

But Terezi doesn’t pick up – her pocket husk goes straight to voicemail. At least you know she didn’t ignore your call.

_“You rang? TOO BAD! Hehe, the legislacerator is currently occupied. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Maybe.”_

You have to hesitate after the tone sounds, because hearing Terezi’s voice for the first time in months just makes you too goddamn sad about everything. But then you start mumbling into the talkholes and you don’t want to stop.

“Hey, Terezi. Urr, it’s Karkat. Urr...listen, I know – I – I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry for not returning any of your calls or anything, and for leaving like that, and, urr, I – I’m not mad anymore. Really. Fuck I miss you. Everything’s been so lonely. Urr, I met a new guy, he’s really cool. Not actually, though, you’d see right through him...listen, I don’t care if you and Gamzee are still, y’know. I just want to see you again.” Fuck, you’re crying. “I’m so sorry. Call me.”

You sit down on the curb in front of The Green Sun and bury your head in your arms.

**=== > Take a walk.**

Your name is Dave Strider, and your shift at the bar is finally over. Your job, however, is not.

There’s some straggler outside who looks like they had a few too many tequilas and didn’t work out his limo beforehand. Which is a shame, because you would rather be annoying the fuck outta your fun-sized troll bro than dealing with some miserable alcoholic.

“You need a ride?” you call from the door, with Sir Mix-a-Lot’s sweet beats blaring behind you.

The slumped silhouette doesn’t look your way at first, and seems to condense itself even further, looking more defeated than ever.

You stifle a sigh and shut the door behind you, walking up next to the curbsitter. Something sinks a little bit inside you as you are forcibly reminded, as his features come into view, that Karkat is a little bit of a miserable alcoholic.

You sit down beside him. “Dude.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and you smell the bite of salt next to you as his frame shudders. “Hi, Dave.” He sounds awful.

“Hey.” You aren’t really sure what you should be doing. “What’s a pretty li’l thing like you doin’ up in this part of town?” you drawl, a feeble attempt to lighten the mood.

He doesn’t smile. “When I...I got – I walked in on Sollux,” he mumbles into his arms. “Fucking someone. Fucking _Eridan_. I didn’t know where to go.”

“Well, you could have come in,” you point out, concerned. “It’s almost fucking November.”

“...I didn’t want to deal with it like that.”

You admire Karkat immensely in that moment.

“Well, yeah, that’s why we have Cokes,” you nudge him. “Seriously, what’s up? Thought you and Sully were just roommates.”

“We _were_ ,” Karkat groans, not looking up.

“You wanted more.”

“He’s the most _aggravating_ person,” Karkat growl-hums, a sound familiar but never so pronounced. “Yeah. I wanted more.”

“Hey, I thought _I_ was the most aggravating person,” you grin, absently realizing how _expressionate_ you’re being. You’ve become.

“Ha, ha,” Karkat glares at the ground bitterly. “Sorry.”

“For?”

“I dunno. Always being an asshole, I guess.”

You’re _really_ not equipped to deal with this situation. In fact, you may be the worst person to have stumbled upon Karkat, both tonight and those weeks ago in your first encounter, despite how grateful you are that you did. But you desperately want Karkat to stop feeling so goddamn awful all the time. Your illustrious politician of a Bro never taught you anything that could help in a situation like this. He taught you to never _get_ into a situation like this. So you ask yourself the question you always save for times like these.

_What would Egbert do?_

**=== > Take him home.**

“Will you look at that,” you glance down at your watch. “12:07. Our new closing time. That all your stuff?” you motion to the duffel beside Karkat. He nods. You stand.

“Where’re you going?” Karkat peers up at you, looking a little heartbroken altogether.

“We have to lock up. C’mon,” you beckon, offering a hand that he takes uncertainly.

You both head into the empty bar, and you don’t drop his hand until you’re behind the counter. You grab a tea towel and stick it under the faucet for a second before you start scrubbing at the granite countertop.

Karkat still seems upset, but a little more interested in what you’re doing. “Are you always this thorough?”

“Math majors are good with the details,” you claim. “Also, no. But my bro’s coming tomorrow and he’ll bring a fuckin’ microscope.”

“What does your ‘bro’ do, anyway? Is he an inspector or something?” Karkat asks. You laugh.

“Nope. Bro’s senator of New fuckin’ Jersey. Which is kinda weird since he’s from New Houston,” you add.

“Dirk Strider, that dick with the glasses? I should have known,” Karkat mutters.

“You really should have.” Dirk’s a little famous for having a ridiculous pair of glasses that he wears in every congressional meeting, without fail; since they’re prescription, no one has ever stopped him.

“Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

“Yeah, I told him not to come,” you sigh uncomfortably, “but damned if that’s ever stopped him. Bro’s a fuckin’ enigma. Anyway, he picks up half the rent for my digs, but if he thinks I’m not doin’ good work he’ll pull that shit out from under me faster than a 50-year-old accountant comes in Megan Fox.”

“...I don’t get it.”

“What don’t you get?”

“Why would he go inside Megan Fox?” Karkat frowns. You bite your lip. “Is this some weird human dick thing?”

You can’t help but burst out laughing at this point. “It’s – yeah. Exactly. Don’t even worry about it.”

“Whatever. Fuck your human slang,” Karkat rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, well, fuck-it-to-your-bucket sexytime shit,” you reply. Karkat snickers despite himself.

You finish scratching the half-crusted flavor syrup off the counter and, with one final wipe, you deem the bar Clean As Heavenly Fuck. “You ready?”

“Ready for?” Karkat glances at you tentatively.

“Well, uh, I thought we’d go to my place?” you suggest. “You need somewhere to crash, right?”

“...is that okay?” he averts his eyes, dusting red with shame.

You slowly walk around the counter and drop an arm around his shoulders. “Of course,” you say, as though it’s the most natural answer in the world.

**=== > Go home.**

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you’re home.

Bluh. Fuck that Strider-esque ironically hypersaccharine bullshit. You are on Strider’s pretty decent couch, which almost smells like genuine leather and is exactly as cold as you would expect a leather couch to be. Strider is on the other side of the couch. You know exactly what direction this is heading, and at the same time you have no fucking idea where this is going. You have no idea if this is pale, or red, or some warped up version of black, or even in a fucking quadrant at all.

_“Bunch of idiots dancing on a plane to a song made famous by a band that died in a plane crash.”_

“Why are we watching this again?” you whirr, a feeble attempt at your normal irritatremors. You can’t help it. The finer features of your squawk blister remain messed up hours after you get your rampant mercurial fucking emotions under control. You’ve always thought it’s a little depressing that none of your friends can imagine you without a scratchy voice.

“Because it’s Jegbert’s favorite and it’s never a bad idea to score points with your boss.”

“Fair.” You go back to staring absently at the screen, not paying attention remotely to human Nic Cage (disgusting, you know Vriska would be losing her shit over this) (you also wonder if Vriska’s made up with Terezi yet, they had some fight a half sweep ago and you haven’t asked about it) and not really paying attention to anything else, either. You don’t want to.

About fifteen minutes later, Dave puts his feet up on you as he reclines. You turn around to glare at him.

“Whoa, time out, dude,” he exclaims, pausing the movie.

“What?”

“Your eyes are, like,” Dave gawks. “I could write a fuckin sonnet. ‘He doth have eyes of broken glowstick pools.’ Holy shit.”

You consider for a moment. “I guess,” you shrug blandly. “We’re kind of fucking nocturnal, Dave.”

“Right.” Dave unpauses the movie, stretching out even further, and with a huff you wedge yourself up against his legs until you regain some semblance of comfort.

You can’t wait five minutes before being done with this goddamn monstrosity of a human moving image masterpiece. “Dave.”

“Karkat.”

“Talk about stuff.”

Dave laughs a little. “Never thought I’d hear _anyone_ say that. What kind of stuff?”

“I dunno. Stuff you haven’t talked about before.” You shrug a little on his legs. “Your job. Growing up. Being a math major. Your bro.” You feel him stiffen underneath you, and you look back at him, concerned. “Is that – you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Well, yeah,” he shifts uncomfortably, “but I do.”

You reach for the remote and turn the volume down to a fuzzy hum. You then realize how awkward it is to carry a conversation in massage-train format, so you push Dave into the back of the couch and wriggle your way next to him, laying with your eyes to the ceiling.

“Well, being a math major was pretty cool,” he starts weakly. “You know what? Fuck it. College was the best time of my life. Most freedom I ever had. Wish it lasted longer. The degree hasn’t been good for shit either, except for proving I’m competent with a fuckin’ calculator…

“I got a job bartending at The Green Sun as soon as I got out, and I was the only guy who could go full-time when Doc’s right hand woman quit, so I got assistant manager. Which has been alright, except I can’t DJ since I have to work there at night and Doc won’t let me multitask.”

“Why didn’t you major in music?” you ask.

“Wasn’t sure if I wanted to do that for a career. Plus studying music’s way different from playing. I didn’t want to fuck up a really good part of my life, I guess.”

Beside you, against your shoulder, you feel the tiniest movement, Dave tensing, and you have a feeling about what he’s going to bring up next.

“Bro’s been grooming me. From Day 1. Pretty much.”

“...not like cleaning?” you clarify, because that’s pretty normal for any lusii with opposable thumbs, but it doesn’t exactly sound grim enough for the lead-up.

“Nope. Like...prepping.”

“Prepping you for what?” you ask uneasily.

“For stuff kinda like what we’ve been dealing with,” he replies dully. “Dirty politics. Bro has some edgy views. I can’t be a vulnerability or else I’m floppin’ myself up on the sacrificial altar. If people know not to fuck with me, there’s no problema.”

“So when you say ‘prepping,’ what the hell do you actually mean?” you prompt.

“I mean,” you watch Dave purse his lips in the humming TV light, “nothing comes easy with Bro. Like, food. You’d think dinner’s a normal thing, right? We didn’t do the whole dinner shebang. Bro left food up the chimney like some reverse Santa Claus shit and I had to shimmy up like a fuckin’ Christmas elf to get it. Never in the same place, either,” he adds. “Gotta hunt that shit down first. He also had one hell of a sword fighting obsession, like, fetish level.”

“That’s – he didn’t –”

“Nah, that part was actually pretty alright,” Dave cuts you off. “It’s not like he went full throttle when I was a noob or anything. He might’ve started a little early. It’s not like it was anything I couldn’t handle. I mean, I made it this far, didn’t –”

“– Dave,” you interrupt quietly, reaching over and gingerly sweeping a wet bead off his face.

Dave reaches up and traces under his eye with a couple of fingers. “Oh,” he whispers. “Sorry.”

You have never felt so overwhelmingly pale as you do in this moment. Not with Gamzee. Not with anyone else.

For reasons you cannot fathom, you lean over and kiss Dave. You feel clawless fingers knot themselves into your head and rest against your scalp, and for a moment there’s nothing but the gentle, fluxing exchange between the two of you that feels like a lifeline being knit.

You pull away to breathe, pausing inches away from his face. “Dave?”

“That was cool. I was cool with that,” he grins, slowly and messily.

“Maybe we should do that more often.” You relax against him – _relax_ , you don’t remember the last time you did that – and it’s impossible to tell who drifts off first.

**=== > Dammit, leaving a calling card wasn’t supposed to be a tip off.**

You are now the ~~im~~ partial narrator.

You really didn’t want to do this. But sometimes people just find out a little too much, and you simply can’t risk a couple of amateur sleuths ruining this for you and everyone else!

It’s a shame. But they’ll have to go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for now, humans!! As you may have noticed, the whole "one update a week!" idea completely flopped as soon as it began trying to gain a corporeal existence. I am going to be very busy for the next several weeks (and I have started a very exciting new Homestuck-related project!!), so I think it'd be a good idea for me to put this on hiatus until I have more time to work on it. Not forever!!! Nay, I fully intend to finish this. But there will probably not be any updates for at least a month, possibly/probably a little longer.  
> When I noticed the length of this chapter I thought about splitting it into two, but I felt like the narrative of one day-long half-nightmarish experience was worth keeping together. So enjoy an almost double-length prepause slab of text!! As always, kudos and comments infinitely appreciated -- thanks for reading up to this point, and I can't wait to serve up another chapter!!! :D :D :D


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